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, A Story of 

fc2?rr tE 

of Jhe Past 

, Nil'" 7 '"®’'' 

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1884, <>y ihe Maccabean 
Publishing Co., of New York, in the Office of the Librarian 
of Congress, az Washington , D. C. 



25 BOND STREET, 

MACCABEAN PUBLISHING CO. 

NEW YORK 


















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WIDOWS SON. 


[. Sion of Jevlst Ule of IIb m 



By I. N. LIOHTENBERGr, 

it 


3 


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1884, by the Maccabean 
Publishing Co., of New York, in the Office of the Librarian 
of Congress , at Washington, D. C. 



■ ■ • 

W /on*® 


MACCABEAN PUBLISHING CO. 

OF NEW YORK. 

































































[COPYRIGHTED.] 


THE WIDOW’S SON: 

* v. 

_ 

A STORY OF JEWISH LIFE OF THE PAST. 


BY I. N. LICHTENBERGh 


CHAPTER I. 

THE WIDOW’S SOU. 

The village of Immenfeld is situated in one of the val¬ 
leys on the Rhine. Two centuries ago the houses, of 
which not one boasted of more than two stories, already 
looked as if they were tired of life and inclined to sink 
down into the abyss of mother earth. The village lay in 
a deep vale, at whose upper end a high hill rose towering 
to the clouds, bearing a splendid castle on its peak. This 
was indeed a contrast, for its gigantic minarets by no 
means corresponded with the poor huts in the valley. It 
looked so large and corpulent, so smooth and comfortable, 
that its aspect involuntarily recalled to mind the old 
Sclavonian superstition and adage, namely: That the 
bodies of deceased persons became vampires, and at night 
sucked the blood from their still living relations, who be¬ 
came weaker and weaker till they, in turn, were con¬ 
signed to their graves. This castle was a ghost of a time 
long past; a time in which all these sunken and ruined 
huts yet looked new and pretty, and did not lean so de- 





4 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


jectedly toward the earth. But afterward the castle must 
have become a vampire and drawn the blood and marrow 
from the village. 

But not alone was the castle in its still, cold majesty a 
contrast to the village; it also suffered from a like evil, 
for directly opposite it, with only the length of the village 
between, was another hill. This also bore a burden on its 
back—white stones, like those of which the castle was 
built, but they were tomb-stones, numerous and mostly 
weather-beaten, half sunken and decayed, as was the 
whole village. It must have been that many people died, 
or that the graveyard was very old, for the hill down 
nearly into the valley was wholly covered with them. 

The cemetery was indeed very old. It was the place 
where even longer than six hundred years ago the Jews of 
the village laid down their tired heads. Any one who 
knew of the piety with which the Jews regard their dead, 
must immediately have recognized this to be a Jewish 
graveyard, for only these leave their dead to everlasting 
rest. Bor other denominations like the soil better than 
the bones of their relations; they put five or six into 
one grave, or, perhaps, after thirty years, exhume and 
consign them to a vault built expressly for this purpose, 
called the charnel house, and inter new arrivals, under 
the false representation of everlasting rest, when the old 
occupants have been violently ejected. For this reason a 
graveyard so large as that of Immenfeld would have suf¬ 
ficed a populous city for thousands of years. But where 
two hundred years ago there was a Jewish cemetery in 
the place to which it belonged there certainly was a 
“ Jews Lane” or a ghetto—that is, an alley or a street in 
which the Jews were forced to live, suffer and die, before 
they were laid to everlasting rest. 

Such was the case in Immenfeld. Apart fromt he dilap 
idated huts in the village lay the Jews’ Lane, with its 
houses, which, with the synagogue at the extreme end 
toward the graveyard, even less merited the appelation 


THE WIDOW'S SON. b 

houses** than the dwellings of their Gentile fellow- 
creatures. 

The Jewish congregation of Immenfeld consisted of 
sixty bcCale batim (heads of families), unmarried persons 
who had no household of their own, or widows, not 
counted. 

* * * * * sf: % 

It was a chilly September morning, and the watchman, 
wrapped in his military cloak, brushed the dew from his 
beard and knocked at Farmer HannikeFs door, for the 
farmer wished to be up early, as he wanted to do his thresh¬ 
ing that day. The watchman, after he had blown thr^e 
blasts on his horn, called out the third hour of the morn¬ 
ing, which call was responded to by several rash roosters 
in the neighborhood. Now, having awakened the old 
farmer, he stationed himself beside the old synagogue in 
order to send his call down the ghetto, or Jews* Lane, for 
which favor he received an annual compensation from 
the Jewish congregation; for, being a Christian watch¬ 
man, appointed by his congregation, he was not in duty 
hound to guard the Jewish quarter without any special 
compensation. 

But as he was in the act of applying the horn to his 
mouth, he became aware of a bowed figure which 
emerged from the last house in the Jews* Lane, and soon 
he heard the call for prayer, to him, wholly in an unin¬ 
telligible cry. The watchman lowered his horn and said, 
peevishly: “Well, if the sexton already calls to prayer, 

I need not waste my service on the inhabitants of the 
ghetto.** It is but two weeks to the Day of Atonement, 
and as they blow the shofar (cornet,) the Jews rise up early 
at this season for propitiatory prayers and attend service at 
the synagogue. 

Let us peep into one of the most dilapidated huts in 
the Jews* Lane. In an alcove separated from the room 
by an old chintz curtain, a hoy lay in deep, healthy slum¬ 
ber on an old chest which served for a bedstead; his 
cherry lips were partly opened, his cheeks glowed with 


6 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


the ruddy hue of health, and a look of pleasant excite¬ 
ment rested on his countenance. 

“He dreams so sweetly,” said the little woman bend¬ 
ing over the sleeper, and holding aloft a little oil lamp, 
in order better to contemplate his features with eyes 
which had been sorely tried by tears and cares. 

With a deep contented sigh the boy now turned to the 
wall, thus withdrawing his pretty face from the woman’s 
view. 

“ I must wake him,” muttered she, “ I must wake 
him, so that he can eat something before day, and I don't 
want to wait for the sexton's second call, for that breaks 
in rudely upon sleepers!” 

She called softly several times, “Joseph! my good boy, 
get up, it is time; arise, dear, they are calling to prayers 
already.” 

But the boy did not stir, and slept on peacefully. The 
woman pulled his arm gently several times, but without 
effect; he only turned his face toward her again, and 
muttered some words in his sleep. Now the woman 
fairly started with affright—several sharp blows resounded 
on the rotten shutters. This worked like magic. The 
boy shot from the bed like an arrow from the bow, and 
almost overthrew the woman. 

“Hurrah! Long live the general!” cried he, but fell 
back immediately on the bed and stared sleepily on the 
little oil lamp. 

Soon his face lit up intelligently, and he said pleas¬ 
antly: “Good-morning, mother dear; it is morning, is it 
not ?” 

“Yes, yes, although it is still very early, Joseph, but 
to-day is the first Selichoth day, beginning of the ten 
penitential days, and as you will be Bar Mitzvah (con¬ 
firmed) next year, you must fast to-day, and I awoke you 
in order that you may partake of some nourishment 
before day-break, and ere you attend service at syna¬ 
gogue.” 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 


7 


“Very well, mother,” said the boy, begining to dress 
himself; “but I would rather you had let me sleep a 
little while longer, so that I could have dreamed out my 
beautiful dream. Oh, mother, mother, how glorious it 
was! I dreamed that I had become general of a vast 
army, and as I rode along proudly on my horse, the sol¬ 
diers presented arms, and all the drums beat a salute, 
just like last year in Cologne, and then you marred my 
prospect by awaking me." 

“Your drummer was the sexton who beat on the shut¬ 
ters with his hammer/’ said the mother, with a smile, 
while she assisted him in his simple toilet. 

“Oh, what a difference/’sighed Joseph, “between a 
drum-major and a sexton; if I was Parnass (President of 
the Congregation), the sexton would fiave to call for 
prayers with a grenadier’s cap on his head, and a white 
leather apron.” 

“St, st,” said the mother; “you must not rail at sacred 
things, my son.” 

“ But, mother, the sexton is not a reverend; my teacher. 
Rabbi Mordechai, is so, for he reads the Thorah, while 
the sexton does nothing of the kind.” 

“No matter, my child; for you know that one who 
impels another to do a good deed may expect as great a 
reward in the next world as the one who has done the 
deed, and further that any one who tempts another to 
evil must expect the same punishment as the evil-doer. 
Now, the sexton is the one who reminds almost all the 
members of the congregation to go to the synagogue, or 
that they are to perform some charitable act; he is there¬ 
fore, properly speaking, the admonisher to good, and for 
this reason, my child, you must not mock him.” 

It was not certain whether Joseph was convinced by 
the argument of his mother. Suffice it to say, that he 
remained in a contemplative mood, even while he was 
consuming his warmed oat-meal porridge. (Coffee was 
then a luxury which only the wealthiest people could in¬ 
dulge in). Still the precept that he who urges another 


8 


THE WIDOW'S SON . 


to a good and noble deed lays by the reward for himself, 
seemed to have made a deep impression on his mind, for 
he said: 

“Mother dear, when in future times I will have become 
a captain, I will try to urge my subalterns to love God 
and perform charitable deeds.” 

His mother, who sat opposite him, raised her eyes and 
glanced at him almost peevishly. 

“Hush!” she said, reprovingly, “hush, with your fool¬ 
ish dreamings; how often have I explained to you that 
Jews cannot become soldiers, not to say officers.” 

“ Oh, pshaw, they only need will it,” said Joseph, fret¬ 
fully; “ they only ought to desire it fervently, and take the 
great kings and judges in Holy Scripture for their proto¬ 
types, and they will become as valiant warriors and great 
commanders as they.” 

“My son, we are in galuth (exile), and it is our duty 
to be submissive and not enrage our enemies, for their 
power is great, and the wrath of God rests heavily upon 
us.” 

Joseph did not answer, for he knew his mother did not 
approve of plans that seemed so extraordinary and am¬ 
bitious to a Jew of that time. He got up quickly, put his 
old cap on his black curly hair, took his prayer book, 
which he ardently kissed, and was about to depart. But 
now his mother put a great book, the weight of which 
almost bore him down, under his arm. 

“ Here,” said she, “take this Machsor (festive volume). 
It belonged to your father—peace be with him!—and it's 
the first time since his death that it is carried worthily to 
the synagogue again.” 

The good woman dried a few tears and Joseph's lower 
lip quivered. 

“ Now go, and God be with you, my Joseph,” she then 
said, patting him lightly on the back. “Next year you 
will already have taken the yoke of the Thorah upon you, 
and be a man, responsible for your own actions, which you 
must yourself expiate. When you come home,” contin- 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


tied his mother, “ you may go to Cobbler Christians’ 
orchard and pick up the fruit which has fallen from the 
trees during the night. Half of it belongs to you; the 
other half you must take to the Cobbler; that’s what he 
said to me yesterday. But bring your Machsor and prayer- 
book home first.” 

Joseph stepped forth from the door of the little hut. It 
was chilly, and he felt all the more so as he saw no other 
human being on the street. All the houses in the Jew’s 
Lane were more or less alight, but still Joseph must have 
started too early, for when he reached the synagogue, 
which was already open, but there was not a single person 
within. 

The many sayings and legends which circulate in 
regard to a synagogue are sufficient to infuse a solemn 
dread and awe, and it seemed very gloomy to Joseph; 
furthermore, the universal and beautiful belief, that the 
Shekinah, the Divine Majesty, dwells therein; that angels 
hold their meetings in an empty synagogue, and that 
therefore, the one who enters first must knock lightly, 
exercised such a powerful influence on the twelve-year-old 
boy, that he stepped back, overcome by holy awe, and 
resolved to walk on a little and wait until a few men had 
entered the synagogue before him. He therefore strolled 
quietly on, contemplating the morning sky, which had 
just spread a light-gray veil over the Jewish graveyard. 
There stood all the tombstones of many generations, and 
seemed to look longingly down at the village and at the 
Jewish Lane. In the doubtful light of early morning, 
they seemed to nod their heads gravely at the boy; nay, 
he even thought he distinguished, amid the endless mass 
of simple, sorrowful monuments, the gravestone which 
stood over the last resting-place of his father—the man 
who was so loved and honored, not only by the Jews of 
the village, but by all the noblemen who possessed estates 
and castles in the neighborhood; that father who had 
been known as “ Old Bonafit,” and whose honesty had 
become proverbial as his poverty. But his father had 


10 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 


been proud of his poverty and adversity, for it p oceedcd 
from his exaggerated sense of integrity. 

And just a year and four weeks ago, while lying on his 
dying bed, that father had said to his son, who under¬ 
stood him very well, as he was already able to expound a 
page of Gemarah without the help of Rabbi Mordechai: 

“My son, I leave you no earthly goods, but you will 
inherit a diadem, the most beautiful that can grace a 
human being, the crown of a good name; for, according 
to the sayings of our sages of blessed memory, it is a gem 
more glorious than that of the Thor ah, of royalty, or of 
priesthood. This, therefore, I leave you as your inherit¬ 
ance, for I have worn it. At times it is heavy; often it 
is oppressive, but in the hour of death the rubies and 
diamonds in this splendid crown shine brightly, make 
death easy, and inspire a blessed hope of a glorious life 
in the hereafter. And see, here is your mother; part of 
the crown is hers, for she has helped in constructing it; 
she has set many precious stones in the crown of my good 
name, and whenever its luster threatened to grow dim, 
she has tried to restore it to its brilliancy. My son, do not 
rob your mother of her share in this diadem; hold it in 
particular veneration, for the greater part of the child’s 
good name falls back on the mother!” 

How well all this recurred to Joseph as he stood there; 
he thought to hear again the weak, venerable voice of his 
sainted father, while his eyes rested fixedly on yonder hill 
covered with gravestones. But—merciful God! what 
was that? Joseph’s tongue clove to his mouth, his legs 
trembled beneath him, Machsor and prayer-book slipped 
from his hands and he sank on his knees, his eyes still 
directed in fixed terror toward the cemetery! 

CHAPTER II. 

A FINE SPECIMEN OF NOBILITY. 

If Joseph Bonafit had seen by day that which now so 
sorely terrified him, he would have felt neither fear nor 
anxiety; but at night, near such a spot, and busied with 



THE WIDOW'S SON. 


11 


thoughts of death, after he had barely recovered from the 
solemn awe with which the empty synagogue had inspired 
him, it seemed to Joseph as if a gigantic coffin rose 
from among the tombstones, and that it was drawn by 
two monsters who moved to and fro uneasily. He could 
not remove his eyes from the dreadful apparition, and 
presently he saw it move down the hill straight toward 
him! 

It grew larger and more monstrous the nearer it came, 
and it came with fearful speed. He wished to flee and 
could not; he felt as he had often done in dreams, when 
he wished to escape from some monster, yet could not stir 
a step, while all the time certain that the awful thing 
would devour him the next moment. How the apparition 
could be barely a hundred paces distant! Joseph drew a 
long, relieved breath, for what had so terrified him was a 
coach and pair of horses which rolled down the road 
leading close by the graveyard with furious speed. But 
his heart contracted again and fear took possession of 
him, for he could not hear the least noise. Mutely and 
noiselessly the vehicle now flew past him; silently the 
eight horses’ hoofs beat the stony ground, and mutely the 
driver on the box guided his horses. 

However, Joseph ventured to glance about him, and 
look after the ghostly team. But wonder of wonders! 
The carriage drew up before Cobbler Christian’s house; 
the driver got down from his box, opened the coach door, 
and then Joseph heard him tap softly on Christian’s win- 
dow-shutters. 

What could the poor drunken cobbler have to do with 
the carriage at early morning? Joseph could not deter¬ 
mine; but one thing was certain, that he had to do with 
actual men and horses, not with phantoms. But now 
the door was opened, the cobbler—Joseph recognized him 
by the faint light—came forth, and approached the car¬ 
riage door, took posession of a somewhat heavy package, 
and disappeared with it into the house. 

The driver immediately remounted his box, turned his 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


horses, and rolled back the road as noiselessly as he had; 
come, but this time at a very slow pace. 

The gray cloud oyer the graveyard had assumed a rosy 
coloring; suddenly a golden beam darted forth, illumin¬ 
ing carriage and driver, as well as the still kneeling boy.. 

Not ten paces from him the carriage again drew up,, 
the driver descended from the box and busied himself' 
about the wheels and the horses’ hoofs. Now it became 
clear to Joseph why the coach had rolled so silently. 
The wheels and the horses’ hoofs had been covered with 
felt, which, as secrecy was no longer necessary, was now 
being taken off. 

Joseph rightly guessed that he had been a witness of a 
transaction which it would have been better for him to 
know nothing of. He arose quickly in order to make his 
way from the spot. 

Such a dreadful face looked out at him from the front 
window of the carriage, that the poor boy’s heart almost 
stood still with fear. It was the face of a man in his 
prime, but who was so dreadfully thin as to look like a 
living skeleton. His nose, bent like a hawk’s bill, almost 
touched his upper lip; his gray, pointed whiskers reached 
down to his breast; but his eyes, of a gray color like that 
of an owl, were the most awful Joseph had ever seen, 
and held the poor boy captive by their magic power. 

“ John,” now cried the dreadful figure in the carriage, 
“catch that fellow there; he has been watching us.” 

Joseph uttered a cry of terror, and when the man in the 
carriage opened the door in order to alight, he fled like a 
frightened fawn, leaving prayer-book and Machsor to 
their fate. He ran instinctively in the direction of the 
graveyard and nimbly hopped about among the tomb¬ 
stones. 

John, the driver, perseveringly pursued him, but im¬ 
peded by his cloak and heavy boots, he could not gain 
upon the fleeing boy, who by his agony of fear ran higher 
and higher up the hill. Suddenly a sharp, piercing 
whistle sounded, from below, and when Joseph looked 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 


IS 


back, he saw the driver beating a hasty retreat. Joseph 
sat down to rest on the tombstone, and saw the driver 
and his master engaged in an apparently very earnest 
conversation, while the latter held his books in his hands, 
and at last put them in the carriage. 

Joseph knew that the books could not betray him, for 
there was no name in them; but he was grieved at the 
loss of the Mciclisor in particular, as it was his heirloom, 
and he remembered his mother's assertion that it was to 
come to honor again. 

When Joseph saw the carriage set in motion and come 
up the road, he hastened down the other side of the hill, 
and thus gained the road which led alongside the village, 
in an opposite direction from the graveyard, to the hill 
on which the castle stood. 

Joseph was by no means in a happy mood; for, besides 
the various frights he had undergone, he had to ex¬ 
pect at home the most bitter reproaches from his mother 
for the loss of his books, as well as his absence from the 
synagogue, which had no doubt already been imparted to 
her by some kind busy-body. He wished to enter the 
village from the opposite side, in order at least to carry 
out the pleasantest part of his morning's work—picking 
up the fruit in Cobbler Christian's garden—when he sud¬ 
denly remembered that Christian had played a prominent 
part in the carriage affair, and he now fairly shuddered 
at the thought of the cobbler. His curiosity to know 
what the latter had received did not torment him greatly, 
for he felt that it could only be dangerous, as carriages 
did not come at night, nor were wheels covered with felt 
for trifles. Joseph thoughtfully sat down on the stump 
of a tree, which stood by the side of the road; he wished 
to await the time when he could go home without much 
danger of his receiving a rebuke; he knew that his mother 
had to go out to nurse a sick person that day; she had, 
etas! been obliged to take up this employment ever since 
his father's death. 

To the right of Joseph a swamp extended far out ta 


14 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


where a little brook sluggishly flowed through it; this 
brook was spanned by single trunks of trees laid close to 
each other, probably the commencement of a once pro¬ 
jected bridge. Of course, only the foolhardy boys of the 
village ventured to balance themselves on those round, 
slippery trunks; in a better community than that of 
Immenfeld this poor bridge would have been cleared away 
long since, in order to prevent an accident; for a fall 
from the slippery trees was synonymous with a slow, sure 
death in the swamp below. 

Well, at the border of the swamp, which this morning 
was covered with myriads of frost beads, sat Joseph, from 
sheer ennui , looking up the hill to the castle, a sacred 
ground which the feet of a Jewish boy durst not tread; 
for the rishuth (hatred of Jews) in the castle since the 
widowed baroness and her son resided there, had become 
proverbial. Even the sight of this high-born son, who 
was of the same age as Joseph, had till now been denied 
the profane glances of the Jewish hoys of the village; but 
their fathers seldom thought of him without indignation, 
for the young gentleman indulged in the harmless pleas¬ 
antry of stuffing pig-bones into the pockets of the Jews, 
when they were at any work in the castle, and thus rend¬ 
ered the frugal lunch they generally had there unfit for 
use; or he set his dog on a Jew who was groaning under 
a load he bore on his back; or he sneaked out behind 
and thrust burning papers into his shoes while he was 
engaged in earnest conversation. All this, the poor peo¬ 
ple were obliged to endure, for they almost all depended 
on the gracious baroness, who was highly amused by her 
son’s tricks, and called herEgmont (such was the villain’s 
name) a witty little angel. Once only, a Jew, who was 
not known in this region, had dared to avenge the wrongs 
of the Jews of Immenfeld, and this constitutes the town 
talk even to this day. This man carried a large chest, in 
which were all sorts of fancy wares, on his back. He had 
come to the castle to try to sell some of his wares to the 
domestics, and stood conversing with them in the large 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


15 


hall. Ho rested the chest on his sturdy walking-stick, 
and then leaned back on it. But the young baron, unob¬ 
served by the Jew, tied a rope to the stick and then, 
stationing himself at a distance, drew away the stick with 
a strong pull, so that both man and chest lost their bal¬ 
ance, and fell back amid the loud laughter of the serv¬ 
ants. The Jew was not only a very passionate but an 
exceedingly strong man. He sprang up, seized the rope, 
which lay near him, shoved the men-servants, who wished 
to restrain him, to one side, as if they were feathers, 
placed the spoiled boy, who yelled death and murder, 
across his knees, and despite the blows which fell like 
hail on his own back, gave him such a severe castigation 
that the young baron had to keep his bed eight days. 
The peddler’s sturdy stick then kept his pursuers at bay, 
although he had to leave his chest of wares behind him. 
He escaped, followed by the threats of the servants (who 
did not really wish to catch him, as the young baron had 
often ill-treated them) and the loud cries of the gracious 
lady and her well-whipped son. As the baroness ordered 
his arrest, he was obliged to remain concealed some time 
in the Ghetto of Immenfeld; here he received assistanc® 
enough from the Jews he had avenged so well to purchase 
a fresh supply of goods. 

But since the young baron had been whipped so un¬ 
mercifully by a Jew his hate for the Jews knew no bounds, 
and daily he importuned his mother to allow no Jews to 
come to the castle, to which, however, his noble mother 
could not consent, as she was head over ears in debt, and 
the castle would have long since been sold at auction but 
for Jewish money. 

Joseph thougt of all this while his glances rested on 
the castle, the gray gate of which he now could plainly 
see. Thoughts of the brave Jew made his bosom swell 
with pride; he felt a strong desire to stand opposite this 
spoilt child, of whose feebleness go many stories were 
told; he wanted to show him there were more Jews who 
were not afraid. 


/6 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


Just at this moment a little door in the great castfe 
wall flew open and a boy clad in a blue blouse stepped 
out. 

He looked around warily, then ran down the hill 
straight to the spot where Joseph was sitting on the 
stump. There he halted, out of breath, and regarded 
Joseph with as much malice as curiosity. The latter also 
looked silently at the boy and perceived that the stories 
of his feebleness had not been exaggerated; for he knew 
immediately that this was the young baron. The boy's 
face had a bluish tint, and its thinness was extraordinary. 
Scanty hair of a sandy color hung ungracefully about his 
temples. The watery blue eyes seemed starting from 
their sockets, and the nose, bent almost to the bloodless 
lips, gave the boy's face a striking resemblance to that of 
the man whose mysterious proceedings Joseph had been 
a witness of. 

After the two boys had stared at each other for awhile, 
the fair one began: 

“I am Baron Egmont, what is your name?" 

“ My name is Joseph Bonafit," answered the other just 
as haughtily, “and I am not a baron." 

The fair boy frowned, then said: 

“So you are not a baron; consequently, according to 
mamma's views, I ought not to play with you; but I have 
run away from my tutor this morning, and I don't care 
with whom I play; for I mean to be happy for once, to 
skip and climb as merrily as the children of our serv¬ 
ants." 

While Egmont spoke he flourished a thin switch, which 
he held in his hand, and essayed to assume a joyous ex¬ 
pression. 

“Come," he cried, pulling at the ragged jacket of 
Joseph, who made no movement to rise, “come, be a 
horse, I will be a driver!" 

“ I won't play with you," cried Joseph, roughly. 

“Why not?" 

“You are not good enough for me, sir baron!" 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


17 


“ Wha-what!” cried Egmont, and his eyes grew even 
more prominent. “ A baron is not good enough for you? 
Why, you silly fellow?” 

“ Because I am a Jew; therefore, you are not good 
enough for me to play with.” 

Rage and malice distorted Egmont’sface .even more; he 
opened and closed his great mouth in order to bring 
forth some invective, but could not succeed in finding 
one strong enough for the outrage which had been done 
him. 

He raised his switch for a blow, hut Joseph arose 
quickly and stepped up so close to the hoy, that he could 
not hit him. 

ei Listen, baron!” said Joseph, his voice trembling 
with subdued rage; “ one blow and I will throw you into 
this swamp like some loathsome reptile.” 

Egmont retreated a step, and lowered his whip in a 
cowardly manner; then he turned and said contemptu¬ 
ously: 

“Ah, hah! I will not soil my hands on a filthy 
boy!” 

He glanced over the swamp and discovered the trees 
laid across the brook. From the windows of the castle 
he had often watched the boys crossing on these trees, skill¬ 
fully preserving their balance, and he had often felt a desire 
to do the same. He therefore approached the swamp and 
placed his foot on the first tree. 

“Do not walk across,” cried Joseph, warningly, for he 
knew the danger, and his good heart thought only of the 
perilous undertaking of the boy untutored in such pas¬ 
times. 

But the latter cried back: “filthy Jew; I am not afraid,” 
walked on over the slippery trunks. This abuse failed to 
sting Joseph, who was completely lost in the breathless 
interest with which he followed the uncertain motions of 
the foolish boy. 

The young baron walked on for thirty feet on the slip¬ 
pery tree-trunk, and preserved his balance very well; but 


18 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


now he turned around to the Jewish boy, and laughing 
scornfully, said: 

“ Do you see, Jew, its quite sa- ” The word was 

smothered by the cry of terror which both boys uttered 
simultaneously, for Egmont had fallen down into the 
swamp. Although standing on his feet, he sank rapidly, 
and the violent movements with which he accompanied 
his cries of terror, hastened his descent. It cannot be de¬ 
nied that Joseph at first believed to recognize the avenging 
hand of God stretched out to destroy this enemy of Israel, 
that he thought how the Jews of Immenfeld would be re¬ 
lieved of this miserable creature, who perhaps in later 
years would lay an unbearable yoke upon them; for a 
swamp tells no tales, and does not give up its victims. 
These thoughts must not be set too hard to poor Joseph's 
account, for that age implanted vengeful thoughts in the 
bossoms of the poor, enslaved Jews, and the twelve-year- 
old orphan boy could not be better than his people, 
although holy writ enjoins: tC If thy enemy falls, rejoice 
not; be he lowered, thy heart be not glad." 

But now milder thoughts coursed through his soul. lie 
heard the dying voice of his father as it conferred on him 
the glorious crown of a good name, and with one bound 
he had gained the bridge, was balancing his way easily 
along, and in a few seconds stood beside the sinking boy 
who still continued his cries of terror. 

Joseph, whom we know to be very strong, succeeded in 
drawing out the boy so far from the swamp as to enable 
him to lay his body across a log. Although his legs still 
stuck firmly in the mud, he could not sink any deeper. 

Joseph now heard confused voices, and on turning 
around, he saw several men storming down the hill, and 
behind them a lady in a white fluttering garment, who 
was wildly wringing her hands. Before Joseph drew 
back to give place to the new arrivals, he called to tho 
boy to hold on tightly till the help which was near had 
come. 

The men—three servants and a gentleman dressed in 


THE WIDOW'S SON . 


19 


black, whom Joseph immediately recognized as the young 
baron's tutor—threw a ladder to which a board was 
fastened, across the swamp. The gentleman in black was 
the first to reach the young baron, and drew him out of 
the swamp. 

“But, my lord," coaxingly asked the tutor of the 
young baron, “how did you get into this deplorable situ¬ 
ation; no doubt you were disobedient again." 

“No, no," cried Egmont, in a sobbing voice, looking 
toward his mother, who, at a distance of about thirty 
paces from the swamp, had fallen fainting into the arms 
of one of the servants. “No, no, that Jewish boy there, 
whom you saw on the tree near me, enticed me to come 
here, and then drew me into the swamp." 

“.Accursed liar," cried Joseph, “you shall pay for this 
some time as surely as there is now war declared between 
the despised Jewish boy, and the high-born, noble villain!' 

The tutor who was carrying the half-drowned boy, and 
could not make much progress on the shaking ladder, 
signed to the servants to secure Joseph, but they were so 
occupied by the fainting baroness, that they did not notice 
the sign, and when at last the tutor succeeded in attract¬ 
ing their attention Josepli had disappeared. 

CHAPTER III. 

AK ECCENTRIC PERSONAGE. 

Ok a decaying bench in front of a hut in the Ghetto 
sat an old, strange man, an object of horror and super¬ 
stitious fear to the pious Jews of Immenfeld, and which of 
these was not pious? The “ Old Spaniard" had been ex¬ 
communicated or anathematized, the Herem pronounced 
against him because he would not agree to do that which 
all the Jews of Immenfeld did, not omit what all the 
other Jews omitted. To be sure he had permission to 
come to the synagogue, but only into the entrance hall, 
where the abelim. (mourners) are obliged to wait, until let 
into the interior by the rabbi or elders of the congrega¬ 
tion. From no one did the “Old Spaniard" receive a 



20 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 


kind word, a drink of water or a crust of bread (as no in¬ 
tercouse can be bad with an anathematized subject) nor 
did he ask for any. As the Jews in Immenfeld did not, 
so to say, consider him one of themselves, been born and 
reared in the faith, he had often been offered a domicile 
by the Gentiles of the village, but had always refused, 
prefering to retain his little house in the Ghetto, and his 
seat on the bench before the door. 

The members of the Immenfeld congregation main¬ 
tained that he only remained there, after having been 
excommunicated, in order to vex them; and this must 
have been partly the truth, for on fine days “ Spaniard” 
sat on the bench before his door, and read aloud from a 
book filled with strange characters and stranger pictures, 
in accents so utterly unintelligible to any chance listeners 
that they were overcome with horror and dread by the 
awful sounds. 

But whence had the old Spaniard come, and what 
fearful crime had he committed to merit the awful 
anathema, which had been pronounced against him? 

One day—it was a Friday—he had come hobbling into 
the village, for he had only one leg, reported himself an 
orach (wanderer) to the president of the congregation, 
and asked for a plette (a plette is a kind of ticket for 
board and lodging, which notifies the master of the house 
to give board and lodging to a traveler over the Sab¬ 
bath. 

The president had regarded him with surprise, for the 
traveler’s dress was remarkable. He wore puffed black 
velvet small clothes, whose seams were ornamented with 
gold thread; a jacket, likewise in Oriental style, trimmed 
with gold, and on his head a cap with a nodding blood- 
red plume. On his upper lip he had—contrary to all 
usage and custom—an immense gray mustache, which ex¬ 
tended at least six inches on each side of his mouth, 
and the long, narrow beard which depended from his 
chin was twisted so tightly and waxed so stiffly that it 
resembled the point of a lance. 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


21 


The stranger—whom, on account of his Oriental apparel, 
the president's wife dubbed (< Spaniard ”—a name which, 
for lack of a better that was never told, he afterward re¬ 
tained—the stranger expressed his thanks to the presi¬ 
dent, and hobbled off to look for his quarters. Here he 
established himself as comfortably as possible, washed and 
combed his hair, after his journey, rubbed his coarse shoes 
with fat, and oh, heavens! took a little soap-dish from his 
knapsack, filled it with water from the cistern, and 
placed it on the oven, close to the dishes. The trembling 
hostess removed it hastily in order that her dishes might 
not be made unfit for use from it. When the good-natured 
old man asked for a little warm water it was given him. 

But when the Spaniard took a razor from his knapsack 
and began preparations to shave himself, the horrified 
maid-servant ran to the president, and pale with fright, 
told him that the stranger was either no Jew at all, or 
certainly an apostate; for instead of piously nipping off 
his beard with shears, as any devout and pious Jew 
ought to do, he shaved it with a razor like those did who 
were not Jews, contrary to scriptural precepts. 

This was sufficient to cause the president of the congre¬ 
gation to take prompt action. But he came too late; 
the mischief had been committed; the Spaniard was 
shaved. The president then very resolutely requested him 
to leave his present quarters and travel further on, for the 
congregation had no desire to harbor him and to call 
down a heavenly punishment on themselves for the sake 
of such a renegade and public transgressor of the Mosaic 
laws. 

The Spaniard smilingly looked into the president's 
face, and then explained to him that, if he were obliged 
to travel on that day, the Sabbath certainly would have 
set in before he could reach the next village, which con¬ 
tained also a Jewish community, and that the Immenfeld 
congregation would be held to account for every trans¬ 
gression he would be forced to commit. 


22 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 


The president was convinced by this argument, and the 
Spaniard remained. But he received proof how un¬ 
worthily he was considered to remain in the community 
or in the synagogue on Saturday morning, for he was not 
called to the Thora —a courtesy which, till now, had 
not been denied any stranger; and when he strolled 
through the village that afternoon, all avoided him. 

But if they thought to get rid of the troublesome stran¬ 
ger in this manner, they were greatly mistaken. 

Sunday morning came, and our stranger, instead of 
shouldering his knapsack, repaired to the president of 
the congregation, and showed him a duly drawn-up bill 
of sale of a house and garden belonging to a person who 
had once resided in Immenfeld, but now dwelled in 
Frankford. As the house which now belonged to the 
stranger had been unclaimed for a long time, it had been 
considered the common property of the congregation, 
and the president's rage knew no bounds; all the more 
because the congregation had preserved the house in very 
good repair, kept the implements for baking of Matzoth , 
the unleavened cakes, there, and had arranged a dwelling 
for their sexton in it. 

A quiet, sensible man would have agreed to a compro¬ 
mise, for the old stranger spoke in a submissive, courteous 
tone; but the president, who already mortally hated 
Spaniard, because he had publicly transgressed the Mosaic 
law, made bad worse by beginning to abuse him. Now, 
nothing availed him; the sexton had to quit the house, 
and Spaniard, after repeatedly and vainly demanding the 
removal of the utensils for baking the Passover bread, 
threw them out in the street, thus putting the congrega¬ 
tion to an additional expense; for the utensils were ren¬ 
dered unfit for use by their contact with the mud on the 
street. "War was now openly declared. If Spaniard had 
dwelt one hundred fathoms deep in the earth, he could 
not have been more lonely than in his little house. Only 
once more some interest was shown in him; this was 
when a cart, drawn by two oxen, stopped, before his door, 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


28 


and brought his furniture, which, besides some rubbish, 
consisted of nothing but books. 

If, at that time, any one had suspected that a Jew of 
Immenfeld could think of reading any book but one 
written in Hebrew characters, all these volumes would 
probably have been consigned to the flames; but, fortu¬ 
nately, such a thought was too far without the pale of 
probability. Ho Jew could be so wicked as to keep a 
book not written in Hebrew characters within his four 
walls. 

But even worse was to come. One day a boy, who had 
just become Bar Mitzvah (confirmed), appeared before 
the president, and sank, out of breath, on a chair. When 
he had recovered a little, he began to tell, amidst tears, 
and many prayers to God for forgiveness, that curiosity 
had so tormented and impelled him, that he had peeped 
through Spaniard's window, and had seen him reading a 
book on whose pages—oh, horror!—there were pictures 
of unintelligible characters. How, the president's endur¬ 
ance was at an end. He summoned a meeting of the 
board of directors, and Spaniard was notified to appear 
and justify himself. 

He appeared, and when the accusation against him was 
read, or, rather, screamed into his ears by many indig¬ 
nant voices, he answered pleasantly that the book he had 
been reading was an edition of “Josephus to be sure it 
was written in Latin, but the pictures and characters 
represented neither more nor less than the siege of Jeru¬ 
salem by the Romans. The men with the crosses were 
Roman soldiers who held the Jewish prisoners of war, of 
which the honorable board might fully convince them¬ 
selves, as he would quickly fetch the book and show it to 
them. 

A truly dreadful storm of hisses and protests rose 
against this proposal, and the next moment Spaniard was 
out in the street. 

On the next morning the unhappy Spaniard’s sentence 
was communicated to him by the sexton; it was excom- 


u 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 


munication, or the anathema pronounced on him because 
he not only kept forbidden pictures in his house, but 
wrote and read a language not in vogue among Israelites. 

Spaniard made no response; the narrow-mindedness of 
that age was so; he seemed satisfied with his sentence, 
and did not even please the congregation by coming to 
the entrance hall of the synagogue; he simply remained 
away altogether; he would not appeal. 

He had his meat sent to him from a neighboring village, 
but when it became known there that he had been 
“ anathematized ” the Jewish butcher had to refuse to sell 
him any meat, as no communication and intercourse can 
be held by a person excommunicated. He purchased fowls 
and killed them according to Jewish rites after he had 
received permission so to do from the rabbis in Frank- 
ford. 

The relation between Spaniard and the Jews of Im- 
menfeld had now lasted ten years; during this time he 
had never once failed to salute pleasantly every one he 
met, be it a man, woman or child, but had never received 
a recognition. 

But no, Spaniard had had one friend, or at least one 
who kindly returned his nod; this was old Bonafit; yet 
he had never ventured to speak to him, or invite him to 
his house, much less to step across Spaniard's thresh¬ 
old. 

Joseph Bonafit had once asked his father about 
Spaniard’s books, but received the answer that they were 
books which generally helped those who were not Jews to 
positions of trust and authority, as they contained im¬ 
portant secrets of nature; but just for this cause they 
must remain forbidden to Jews. 

From this day forward Joseph always pleasantly nodded 
to the old man, and desired nothing so anxiously as 
just to cast one look into the books of the discarded 
Spaniard. 

Once he partly expressed this wish to his parents; his 
mother clapped her hands together in horror; but his 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


25 


father gently advised him to learn first what the wise 
men of their own faith had ever written; then the wisdom 
of those not Jews would seem mere trumpery to him, and, 
that it was disadvantageous to Jews, he had an instance of 
in the Spaniard. His father’s death and the prepara¬ 
tions for his Bar Mitzvah crowded the hoy’s wish into the 
background. 

* * % * * * * 

Well, on this morning the old Spaniard sat on the bench 
before his door and read aloud from a great book which 
he held on his knees. This time the words were Ger¬ 
man, but such German as was spoken up in the castle, 
and of which the Jews of Immenfeld did not understand 
the tenth part. 

Joseph, still breathing heavily from his rapid run, came 
up the street. He had happily escaped from the servants 
of the baroness, that is for the present; if for the future, 
remains to be seen. 

He had already gone a few steps beyond Spaniard’s hut 
when he halted suddenly, looked about him carefully, 
and softly glided back to the reader. Looking over his 
shoulder into the book he saw singular characters, which, 
like crow’s feet, seemed to be creeping back and forth 
over the paper. His breath moved the Spaniard’s gray 
hair; the latter glanced up, and thus recalled to Joseph 
the consciousness of his dangerous undertaking, for if any 
of his people were to see him in his company, it would be 
all over with him. 

For this reason he prepared to move up quickly, but 
Spaniard took hold of his arm and said in a friendly man¬ 
ner: 

“ Good-morning, my boy; I suppose you would like to 
know how to make any sense of this book, which looks 
so unlike the Gemarah ” (traditional works). 

“ Let me go, Mr. Spaniard, let me go for God’s sake; 
you don’t know how it would harm me if any one saw me 
in your company,” said Joseph, pleadingly. 


26 


THE WIDOW'S SON ,. 


“■So you also entertain fear of me, although your 
father did not,” said Spaniard good-naturedly, liberating 
the boy. 

The latter looked at him and then said: 

“ Oh, Mr. Spaniard, how much I would like to know 
the contents of your books; if I only could or durst learn 
them!” 

“And why do you want to know all that—what good 
would it do you if you are afraid to speak with me?” asked 
Spaniard, drawing his forehead into wrinkles. 

“ Because it must show me the way to become great in 
the world, enable me in some future time to stand op¬ 
posite the young baron up there as man to man; because 
I hope thereby to come out of the galuth (exile) in which 
all the children of Israel languish. Because—because I 
don't want to travel from village to village with a pack 
on my back, hawking and mocked at by the peasants, and 
serving as pastime to the nobles, their ill-bred children 
and the curs in their stables.” 

The Spaniard's face had brightened—it fairly beamed. 

“Poor boy,” said he, “you also would like to rend 
your bonds; but the time to do this has not yet come. It 
fares with us as with the crab, which having fallen into 
a pit fell back at night half the distance which it had 
painfully ascended by day; yes, yes, often as we essay to 
climb we always fall back into the night of prejudice and 
superstition; and not only our antagonists push us back, 
but even our friends and brothers. But, what is that?” 
he interrupted himself suddenly; “ what is going on at 
the castle? Policemen are up there, and they are point¬ 
ing in this direction, the Jew's Lane. Can it be that a 
gezerali (calamity) is drawing near?” 

Joseph also looked up. The next moment he had for¬ 
gotten all considerations not to be seen in the company of 
Spaniard, and clung tightly to his arm in mortal fear. 

“For God's sake, Mr. Spaniard,” cried he, “save me, 
save, hide me! The police are being sent by the baron- 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 27 

ess to look for me, because she thinks I have thrown her 
bad son into the swamp.” 

The Spaniard arose without answering a syllable, and 
allowing the boy to go before him so that he could not be 
seen from the street, he hobbled behind him into the 
house. 

“I don’t want to know anything, I will not hear a 
word,” he said, as Joseph asseverated his innocence. 
“ Come here, I will do away with you nicely.” 

Spaniard took the boy into a closet, back of the only 
room the house boasted of. It was full of books which 
were piled almost up to the ceiling. He directed Joseph 
to creep behind the books which he went about building 
up as a wall. 

“ Keep quiet, my boy,” he said again, “and not a hair 
of your head will be hurt.” 

He resumed his crutches, and soon Josepli again heard 
him read aloud from the great book. 

Policemen had in fact been sent to the village to search 
for the Jewish boy and lead him to the dungeon in the 
castle; for the baroness lay in convulsions, and the little 
baron in a high fever. Although the boy was only known 
by sight to the tutor, who accompanied the policemen, it 
was quickly found out who had been the attacker on the 
life of the young baron, all the more easily as Joseph had 
that morning been conspicuous by his absence in service 
at the synagogue. 

The policemen were not sparing of rudeness and 
threats against the Jews, for they only too gladly believed 
that these not only kept the malefactor concealed, but 
had also instigated him to the attack on the young baron. 
The noise brought Mrs. Bonafit, who was in attendance 
upon a sick person, to the street, and here she was im¬ 
mediately denounced as the mother of the delinquent. 

It is easier to imagine than to describe the poor mother’s 
feelings when she heard the accusations against her only 
son—her son whom she had brought uf> in the love and 
fear of God. Weeping and lamenting, the poor woman 


28 THE WIDOW'S SON. 

threw herself on the ground, beating her breast and call¬ 
ing on her son. But this was of no avail; Joseph did not 
come. In the meanwhile all the houses in the Jew’s 
lane had been searched, without the least result. 

The police had not been at the Spaniard’s; they did not 
deem it necessary to enter the house. It was generally 
known on what terms he was with the Jewish congrega¬ 
tion; and they were far from suspecting that he would 
wish to shield the offspring of one of his enemies from 
righteous punishment. 

But now Joseph’s mother was dragged to her own hut, 
and under pretext of looking for the young criminal, not 
a single piece of the poor furniture was left whole. All, 
all; even the round window-panes set in lead were broken. 

Then, as the son could not be found, they took the 
mother with them. Her prayers and pleadings, inter¬ 
rupted only by her piteous calls on her misguided son, 
were not heard by the latter, for the dreary procession 
did not pass by his place of concealment. 

The poor woman was cruelly driven up the hill to the 
castle, where she was received by the castellan, who 
locked her up in a small room in the tower, until such 
time as the bailiff, who was then absent, would grant her 
a hearing, or the son had been captured. 


CHAPTER IV. 

DUKE FRANCIS XII 

His Excellency, the Duke of Wimmerstein, sovereign 
of the little country to which Immenfeld belonged, was 
sitting in his study, reading the papers and letters which 
the morning mail had brought him. The duke was an 
industrious, orderly old gentleman; he arose very early 
in the morning, partook of a simple breakfast, then re¬ 
paired to his study, and when the clock struck nine—an 

hour at which many of his lazy subjects still lay abed_ 

he had already answered a number of letters and arranged 
a great deal for bis little, but well-governed realm. 

The duke was nearly sixty years old. He had no heir 



THE WIDOW’S SON. 


29 


to his throne, and when he died his duchy would revert 
to a large empire which lay adjacent to it. Duke Francis 
XII. was never married; half of his life had been spent 
in the camp, as general in the Dutch service; the other 
half in. studying, and in intercourse with learned men, of 
whom he preferred the Jews, on account of their deep 
penetration and great reasoning faculties. The duke's 
gray hair, cut short and brushed back from his forehead, 
his beard arranged in the same style as Spaniard's, com¬ 
bined to give his face a serene, noble, and commanding 
expression. Despite this, Duke Francis was a good and 
mild master, who had his peculiarities, but was neverthe¬ 
less almost idolized by his subjects. 

On the morning when we visited him in his study, he 
sat, as usual, before his papers, reading, writing, and cor¬ 
recting, until the perspiration poured from his forehead. 
To cool himself a little, he approached the open window 
and breathed in the fresh morning air, which, at this 
late season of the year, was already quite chill. The valet, 
in the antechamber, -who could observe all his masters 
motions, must have thought that his grace had finished 
working, and would now admit visitors, for he entered 
the study and coughed softly. 

The duke turned around quickly, and asked: “Well, 
Klas, what is it?" 

“ Pardon, your highness," answered the old servant; 
“there's an old Jew, who begs for a hearing, outside.'' 

“Is it a Talmudist?" asked the duke, his face bright¬ 
ening. 

“ Pardon, your highness, I did not ask, but will hasten 
to repair my mistake." 

“ Never mind, just bring him in; for what Jew, unless 
he be a learned one, would dare to ask for admission 
here?" 

“Is it possible! My good old Moses Benrimo," cried 
the duke, greatly delighted, as the servant came back, 
leading a man who had but one leg, and whom we recog¬ 
nize as Spaniard, from Iminenfeld. “Is it possible!"again 


so 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


cried his grace, as he hastened forward, holding out both 
his hands, which Spaniard respectfully kissed. 

“ Yes, your highness, old Moses has come once again, 
to prove his allegiance to his sovereign.” 

“ Sit down here, my old companion in arms and teacher, 
to whom I not only owe my knowledge of Hebrew lore 
(from which I have culled the purest pearls of wisdom), 
but who was my faithful friend for thirty years, and lost 
his leg while fighting at my side. 

“ Look here, Klas,” the duke turned to his servant, 
“ this man here, whom you called a Jew, is my friend, 
Klas, my teacher, the friend and teacher of your sov 
ereign, Klas!” 

“Your highness must excuse me,” answered Klas, 
humbly; “if I had known that I would not have called 
the illustrious gentleman a Jew.” 

“You mistake, my good man,” said Moses Benrimo, 
“as does your highness also; the appellation Jew is no in¬ 
sult or stigma to me, for your highness knows how proud 
it has always made me to belong to a people who have 
spread and carried the banner and light of civilization 
into all parts of the world.” 

“Don’t excite yourself, my good Moses,” cried the 
duke, taking a chair and setting down opposite to him, 
while he motioned to Klas to leave the room. “ Do not 
excite yourself, you cannot think more highly of the 
Jewish people and their literature than I do, yet when I 
hear any one I honor called a Jew, it appears to me as if 
it were an abusive appellation.” 

“Who made it so,” asked Moses, reproachfully; “who 
first comprehended everything base, vile, everything that 
has to shun the light of day under the name of Jew; 
have we done that? Have the Jews themselves dis¬ 
honored their name that it has become an invective in 
your mouths; have not you yourselves, to whom we 
brought the knowledge and light of civilization, rewarded 
us by base ingratitude; has not the degenerate daughter 
repudiated her mother? ‘The stone which the workmen 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


?1 


have cast away will become a corner-stone/ The word 
Jew will he the pearl of price in the crown of progress 
and enlightenment when the time will have come /our 
highness, old Moses Benrimo tells you this.” 

The duke had listened well pleased to the argument 
of Benrimo, and when he had finished he said: 

“ My friend, you know we never could agree upon this 
point; I love the wisdom contained in your books, which 
you have taught me to read and understand; I admire 
your history, your glorious literature, your authors, but— 
but I cannot like the Jews, for although, like the bearer 
of a dark lantern, they have brought us light, they them¬ 
selves have remained in the dark. They obstinately shut 
themselves up from the spirit of the times; they burrow 
and dig in the wisdom of their fathers, and thus are left 
behind in that obscure age, which ours no longer is; in 
short, while we have surpassed them, they have forgotten 
to understand us, and, as we cannot go back, they do not 
comprehend us.” 

“Your highness,” said Moses, warningly, “you are ac¬ 
cusing your own self. The Jews were always capable of 
of being educated; they gladly attached themselves to 
the habits and customs of the country which afforded 
them a refuge; but your highness forgets that the people 
to whom they came robbed them of their rights; that 
the Jews have been shut out from society; that they have 
been persecuted, slandered, burned at the stake; that they 
have been crowded into narrow streets; that they have 
been prohibited to be like other human beings; that they 
were forced to vanish like a stream in the sand, while 
the } 7 might have enriched the land. But, like such a 
stream, they will at some future time come to the surface, 
and then no dam will have the power to obstruct the flow 
of their free and enlightened thoughts. 

“The history of the Jew is the history of civilization; 
check his progress, he sinks, extend to him equality and 
privileges, he rises like a thermometor in the rays of 
the hot sun. Aid him, grant him privileges, and you 


32 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


give the lie to prejudice, silence calumny, by letting him 
become a yeoman of the land. 

“ The Jew ever since has been ordained by God himself 
to carry out his mission under the most adverse circum¬ 
stances. 

“Judaism is destined to plant, first, the seed of true 
religion and keep it fresh with the moisture of charitable 
deeds, until it will firmly be rooted in our own hearts. 
Then it will blossom beautifully, and bear the necessary 
fruit, and we will recognize God as the Almighty, before 
whom we all walk, and who will lead us to perfection.” 

The duke admired Benrimo’s eloquence, but began to 
tire of the subject; it was one which had often been dis¬ 
cussed between them, the duke always coming off at a 
disadvantage, although he never confessed it. It was no 
rarity that Christians who occupied the highest places, 
counted Jews among their most intimate friends. 

“ My Moses,” began the duke, “ let us drop this unre¬ 
freshing subject; tell me rather about yourself: if you 
have found peace and comfort among your people; if, 
within sight of a Jewish graveyard, and occupied by your 
books, you dream away your life as pleasantly as you 
pictured it to me when, ten years ago, you bade me fare¬ 
well. At that time you rejected all honors and riches, 
and left me mourning, in order to pass the remaining days 
of your life among your people; confess, now, have you 
found that peace which you sought ?” 

Moses bowed his head and forced himself to nod an 
assent, but the duke, who looked at him sympathizingly, 
noticed two heavy tears drop slowly into the gray mus¬ 
tache of his old comrade. 

The duke grasped Moses* hand; he was touched to the 
heart by his old companion’s pain, and said gently: 
“ Moses, you are disappointed, or you deceive yourself; 
you are not happy; you have not found among your 
co-religionists what you rejected from me; they are not 
pleasant to you.” 

“ Oh, yes—yes* your highness,” returned Moses, dry- 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


ing his eyes with the back of his hands, (i they are good 
and honest in their intentions, hut they do not under¬ 
stand me. They have sighed and groaned so long under 
the yoke which they are forced to bear, that they have 
ceased to comprehend who they are.” 

“ You are too good, Moses; you defend your fellow- 
believers because they are yours, but they have probably 
found out that all men are alike; that persecution and in¬ 
tolerance strut about everywhere, and that religious fanat¬ 
icism will appear in the same form over and over again, 
until in some future time people will have succeeded in 
liberating themselves from antiquated prejudices. Oh, 
do not speak of it further, Moses,” continued the duke, 
warding him oft, “ say no more, I know what oppresses 
you, although you will not confess it. Stay with me again, 
you know that you can live according to your inclination 
and commandments; remain here, and you will have no 
more disappointments, and should you die before me, 
I will summon all those of your faith within a circuit of 
ten miles; they shall carry you to your grave in the 
Jewish cemetery, there where the mound is highest, and 
the ten first rabbis in my little country shall say the lead- 
dish for you a whole year, and for that whole period shall 
a lamp be alight for you in the halls of my forefathers; 
but should it please God to call me first, my testament 
shall direct the same. Remain here, my friend; my 
instructor, stay with me.” 

Moses Benrimo’s lips quivered convulsively; he essayed 
to keep down his emotion, but it was too strong for him; 
the old man wept. When he had grown a little com¬ 
posed, he said, “1 did not come here to complain, yet 
your highness has divined the state of my feelings. But 
I came here with a petition; does your highness know the 
family of the Baroness Weiden ?” 

“ Yes, she lives in Immenfeld, an old, proud family, 
but very poor. The Baroness Weiden’s brother, a Count 
Witzleb, was banished from court twelve years ago, be¬ 
cause he was guilty of an atrocious deed; I think this is 


34 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


the family you mean. There is a branch of it here in the 
city, an old, very wealthy count, who, but a few years 
ago, married an accomplished young lady, thus depriving 
the Weidens of Immenfeld of the prospect of a rich inher¬ 
itance; however, as the young heir was carried off by gyp¬ 
sies a short while ago, and no trace of him can be found, 
they have hopes of it again. I think this is the family, 
is it not ?” added the duke. 

“ Your highness is right,” said Moses, nodding his 
head. 

“ Well, what of it?” 

Moses Benrimo related the story of the young Baron 
Egmont and Joseph Bonafit, up to the incident of which 
we already know; it may be imagined that he did not 
spare the young baron. 

“ When the poor boy heard,” continued Benrimo, in 
his narration, “that his mother had been imprisoned in 
the tower, he could not bear to remain concealed any 
longer. I had to take him to the castle, where he made 
himself known to the bailiff, who, in the meantime, had 
returned from a hunting expedition. But if Joseph had 
thought to purchase his poor mother's liberty, he was 
sadly mistaken, for the bailiff not only accused the mother 
of being an accessory in the attack on the young baron, but 
he even maintained that the whole Jewish congregation 
had incited Joseph to put the hated young baron out of 
the way. Your highness ought to have seen the conduct 
of this base boy when the poor orphan was brought into 
the court-room to be tried. He poked his fingers into the 
poor boy's eyes, and overwhelmed him with the vilest 
invective, and all in the presence of his mother, the baron¬ 
ess, who had recovered from her fright. Dreadful suf¬ 
ferings are in store for these poor creatures, if your high¬ 
ness will not take compassion on them, for the bailiff 
spoke of tortures to which he would subject both mother 
and son, in order to find out their accomplices, and the 
young baron was full of joy at the prospective festivity.” 

The duke reflected for awhile, then arose, and seating 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


35 


himself in front of his writing-desk, said: “ Moses, I am 
glad that I can do you a favor, but if I liberate your 
proteges, I will expect a favor from you*-” 

“ Your highness has but to command.” 

The duke wrote for a few minutes, then handed to 
Benrimo what he had written; the latter read: 

“We, by the grace of God, Duke Francis XII., do 
hereby request the widowed Baroness Weiden, in whose 
jurisdiction Immenfeld lies, to liberate, immediately and 
without delay, the widow of Abraham Bonafit and her 
son Joseph, and to cease molesting the Jewish congrega¬ 
tion in said Immenfeld. 

“ Furthermore, we request and expect of the widowed 
Baroness Weiden, to send her son Egmont here to attend 
the military school, that he may lay aside all vices and 
wickedness, and learn the military profession, in order to 
become a good officer to his graciously inclined sovereign. 
All this do we request to be accomplished as soon as oos- 
sible, at the risk of our displeasure. 

“(Signed) Francis XII., 

“Beigning Duke of Wimmerstein.” 

“ Hold,” said the duke, as Benrimo prepared to put 
the decree in his pocket; “hold, I have a quicker mes¬ 
senger than you are, and you do not want the poor creat¬ 
ures to languish longer in prison than is necessary. 
Moreover, I do not intend to let you return to your melan¬ 
choly village.” 

The duke rang a bell, and ordered a courier to take the 
document, to which he had affixed his seal, with all haste 
to Immenfeld. 

But when this had been done, Moses rose, took his 
crutches and began: 

“ I humbly implore your highness to let me depart so 
that I may take the post-coach which returns to my vil¬ 
lage to-day.” 

“ Stay here, Moses; don't be obstinate. I speak sober 
earnest; remain and help me in my studies; the sight 
of you has recalled all the reminiscences of old times, and I 


36 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


cannot spare yon any more. I will faithfully keep all I 
have promised you. Being your sovereign, I might com¬ 
mand you, but I don't do it, I only implore you as a 
friend." 

“ Your highness, grant me but one year, then will I 
return and be your most humble servant." 

“ Wherefore a year, Moses? We are both old, we do 
not know that we will ever see each other again. And 
then, 1 have found a number of questions in the Talmud 
which I cannot solve, and which you must explain to me; 
1 cannot wait." 

“ Your highness, I must return for a year to my village, 
in order to put the boy whom you have restored to liberty 
into the path which God has indicated to him; there is 
stuff to make a man of in that boy, but he must be taught 
the right doctrine, and as much as I know the Jews of 
Immenfeld, even his own mother will now regard him as 
an apostate?" 

“Well, in one year, Moses?" 

“ In one year, your highness, if God wills, I shall wait 
on your highness again." 

The duke looked on in astonishment as Moses took off 
the orders and marks of honor which decorated his 
breast, wrapped them in a paper and put them into his 
pocket. 

“Why do you not wear those orders always, Moses?" 
asked the duke. 

“These marks, which only appertain to the high born, 
do not beseem a Jew," answered Moses, bitterly; “nor 
would my people know how to prize them; because their 
oppressors wear them, they often take the decorations for 
the man." 

The duke pulled out his purse and handed it to Moses. 

The latter gently warded him off and said: 

“Your highness, I have not a single year been able to 
use up the pension which your bounty awards me." 

“Well then, Moses, take the purse for the poor of your 
congregation, or for the synagogue of your village." 


37 


the widow's son. 

“They would fear the burning of their fingers by 
contact with it, and would not take a penny of it from 
me.” 

“Poor, poor Moses,” uttered the duke* as his old 
comrade, after a hearty leave-taking, hobbled from the 
room* 


CHAPTER V. 

A NOBLE BROTHER AND SISTER. 

In the deep embrasure of a window in the antique 
reception hall of the castle at Immenfeld, sat the Baron¬ 
ess of Weiden, the mother of Baron Egmont. The lady 
was of a high and stately figure; her features were finely 
cut and aristocratic, but a careworn expression rested on 
them. Although she had not yet reached middle age, 
her high forehead was crossed with wrinkles which could 
be only attributed to care or grief. The noble lady had, 
indeed, many cares, for she was poor. A plebeian might 
not consider this so very dreadful, but to an old, aristo¬ 
cratic family, it is a truly immeasurable misfortune. 
These people, who had so long persuaded themselves that 
they were made of different clay and metal to other mor¬ 
tals that they themselves at last believed it, knew no 
greater crime, next to that of being not noble, than of 
being poor. To escape this misfortune, and uncomfort¬ 
able position, they, since time immemorial, had committed 
misdeeds and crimes which would have brought a man 
of the people to the scaffold, while they did not cast a 
blemish on the reputation of a nobleman. We allude to 
the highly aristocratic freebooters of the middle ages; the 
special taxes extorted from Jews, and the many similar 
heroic deeds, which plain people, who have no under¬ 
standing for the high virtues of those nobly born robbers, 
now call abominable crimes. But two hundred years ago, 
all this had already come to a disgraceful end, and in com¬ 
parison with the preceding century the rights of Jews 
were now better protected, or, rather, the sovereigns, 
having perceived how successfully their vassals extracted 



88 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


and extorted money from the Jews, undertook to do this 
themselves, thus cutting off an income to which the 
noblemen had till then deemed themselves entitled. If, 
therefore, a reduced aristocratic family now wished to 
regain their former wealth, they were obliged to resort to 
other than the favorite means of the preceding centuries. 

Baroness Tekla, of Weiden, had planned and schemed, 
and to-day she sat in the window planning again, at the 
same time looking forth expectantly. Her brow grew 
more and more clouded. 

“He does not come,” she said; “ he does not come; all 
is lost! This last expedition has turned out a failure, and 
my poor Egmont will remain a beggar. Oh, I could 
curse his father in the grave, for not understanding how 
to keep his son's inheritance!” 

The baroness was interrupted in her soliloquy by the 
beat of hoofs beneath the windows of the castle, and 
when she impetuously burst open the shutters and looked 
out, her face cleared, and she cried, joyously: 

“Welcome, Brother Kuno, welcome!” The person 
thus addressed, looked up before he dismounted; he did 
not, however, think of answering the greeting. 

When Kuno entered the reception hall, the baroness 
hastened forward, holding out both her hands; they were 
totally disregarded. 

“Never mind, Tekla,” said Kuno to his sister, very 
quietly; “ never mind; it is not sisterly love which dic¬ 
tates this kind reception and affection, it is curiosity, 
Tekla—curiosity to know whether your little baron, the 
good-for-nothing, is to be dependent on his salary as a 
soldier, or whether he will, as an honored, wealthy vassal, 
in a splendid castle, be able to defy his emperor. No, 
my amiable sister, a loving pressure of hands is no bait 
for me!” 

Kuno cast a sarcastic glance from his gray, piercing 
eyes on the countenance of his sister, which crimsoned 
with mortification, and awaited her reply, slowly stroking 
his long beard. The baroness swallowed her rage, and 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


39 


said, gently, although the words came hissingly forth 
from the thin, blue-tinted lips: “ Oh, Kuno, my friend 
even more than my brother, how can you be so rude and 
unkind to your only sister. I gave you no cause for such 
deportment!” 

Kuno unbuckled his large sword, and sank down 
heavily into a chair. “ Beloved, only sister,” said he, 
aping the lady's mode of expression, “ to what end these 
phrases? You know very well that I have come on matters 
of business, although the hated word business falls un¬ 
pleasantly on the ears of the baroness. You desire to 
secure a large inheritance for your villian of a son, you 
have invented a pretty plan how to make this possible; 
you have looked around yourself for a partner, and found 
none who could arrange the thing better, nor was more 
inclined to assist your precious offspring than Kuno, of 
Witzleb. But as the latter happens to be a brother of the 
gracious baroness, she naturally has recourse to her sisterly 
love for him.” 

“ Kuno,” reproachfully said the baroness, sitting down 
opposite him, “ Kuno, cease your sarcastic remarks, you 
know how they grieve me. Your promise to take charge 
of this matter is as much to your profit as to mine, and 
if your scheme succeeds, and my Egmont becomes the 
heir, you will be entitled to full half the fortune.” 

“Yes, yes,” answered Kuno, “but what guarantee 
have I that your boy will not laugh at my face ? His 
honor, his high descent ?—ha, ha, ha!—his honor, ha, ha, 
ha! —his high descent.” Kuno laughed until the tears 
stood in his eyes. 

The baroness trembled with impotent rage, yet she re¬ 
strained herself. After a pause, during which Kuno had 
time to recover from his immoderate merriment, the 
baroness, without recurring to the obnoxious topic, be¬ 
gan: 

“Well, Kuno, what have you succeeded in accomplish- 
ing ?” 

« Rejoice, sister, for your sou is sure of the inheritance,” 


40 


THE WIDOW'S SON . 


answered Kuno as quietly as if the above dispute had not 
taken place, “ the heir of the old Count Weiden has disap¬ 
peared, and his fond mother is vainly crying out her 
bright blue eyes for him.” 

Instead of evincing surprise or joy, Tekla asked coldly: 
“ And the countess ?” 

“The countess?” asked Kuno, dumfounded, “what 
of the countess ?” 

“Is she not dead also ?” 

“ Sister, sister,” cried Kuno, “ were you brought up in 
the same school with the evil one's grandmother ? What 
do you want of the countess; is she to disappear like¬ 
wise ?” 

“ Assuredly; why leave the thing half done?” answered 
Tekla, as coolly as if she were discussing the sale of a 
horse in her stable. 

Baron Kuno remained lost in thought for a while; then 
he said:. 

^Perhaps you are right; the mother ought to disap¬ 
pear as well as the son; but no, perhaps it is better to 
strike at the root of the evil, and as the count is very old 
his days may as well be numbered; young people may 
die, old people must die.” 

“No, brother, that would be the most foolish thing to 
do; as long as the countess lives or remains near the old 
man, he will bequeath all the property over which he 
has control to her alone; the estates of course revert to 
the next male heir. But you know that his wealth and 
all the property which does not belong to the entail con¬ 
stitute an immense sum, and this would be lost to me” 

“Ah!” returned Kuno, sarcastically, “how soon you 
betray your thoughts; you just said that the fortune 
would belong to you, while all the time you have promised 
me half.” 

“ Pardon, brother; that was only my mode of expres¬ 
sion.” 

“ Never mind, sister, I am acquainted with your 
noble way of thinking; well, so the old count's death is 


THE wrnow's SON. 


41 


out of the question, but his young wife must follow her 
son.” 

“ Exactly, else all thus far accomplished would be to 
no purpose. But what have you, or rather the gypsies, 
done with the child?” 

Kuno arose, approached his mouth to his sister’s ear and 
whispered: 

“ It found its grave within view of its ancestral halls; 
it lies helow in the swamp /” 

The baroness started and grew even paler than she 
had been before; then she drew a breath of relief and 
cried: 

“Thank God, my Egmont will not need to suffer 
want.” 

Always that serpent of hers, again and again that 
abominable boy,” muttered Kuno to himself, while the 
baroness remained lost in pleasant reflections, for all her 
cares were suddenly at an end. It was true that the 
countess, her sister-in-law, still lived; but Kuno would 
soon find ways and means to render her harmless* for 
Kuno was so brave, so crafty and so avaricious, 

Kuno arose and buckled on his sword. 

'“ You do not wish to leave me yet I hope,” said 
Tekla. 

“I must go away; I have a long ride before me.” 

“ Tell me, Kuno, as we are now friends and allies, 
would it not, to say the least, be brotherly of you to let me 
know where you are going to, where you dwell, and what 
noble employments those are which enable you to keep 
the most beautiful horses, carriages and a whole army of 
servants ?” 

“All these, my dear sister, are in anticipation of the 
half of the immense inheritance which we hope to re¬ 
ceive,” answered Kuno, mockingly. “Where I dwell? 
Oh, now here, now there, as beseems a traveling noble¬ 
man. But, sister,” said Kuno, suddenly changing his 
subject, “where is the hopeful heir of the Weidens ? I 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


42 

do not see him anywhere, and yet I am accustomed 
always to see his angelic physiognomy near you.” 

“ He is with his tutor,” returned the baroness, disre¬ 
garding her brother’s malicious and sarcastic remarks. 
“ He was disobedient the day before yesterday; he ran 
away, and I came near losing him forever.” The mother 
who had just listened unmoved by the tidings of the mur¬ 
der of another’s only child, covered her face with her 
hands, and wept at the bare recollection of her own child’s 
danger. 

“What happened to him ?” asked Kuno, not too sym- 
pathizingly. 

“Just think, a Jewish boy from the village enticed him 
to the swamp, and attempted to murder him.” 

“Bah—nonsense! That is one of Egmont’s tricks 
again,” dryly responded Kuno. “ Perhaps he fell into 
the swamp, and, as usual, shoved the blame on some one 
else. I know his way.” 

“Kuno,” cried the baroness in a rage, “you impute a 
baseness to my son of which his noble heart is not capable. 
We witnessed the whole affair from the windows of the 
castle.” 

“ Who witnessed it—you?” asked Kuno, derisively, as 
much as to say, “Sister you lie!” 

“Yes I, and even if I had not seen it, my Egmont does 
not lie.” 

“Hm, hm,”growled Kuno, “you can never let alone 
the Jews, who yet are so necessary to you. Do you know,” 
he continued in a lower tone, “I have never met a Jew 
who in cold blood caused a child to be murdered so that 
he might possess himself of his fortune. I have come to 
know them very w T ell, but the worst among them would not 
deprive a human being of life; how much less, then, 
could a boy commit such an atrocious deed!” 

“I do not comprehend how you can talk in such a 
strain,” answered the baroness coldly; “have not the 
Jews often made use of the blood of Christian children 
on the feast of Passover ?” 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


43 


“Nonsense! Probably this was drawn from charming 
fellows like your son,” responded Kuno. But the 
baroness had now grown seriously angry; she clinched her 
hands, and stepping close up to her brother said: “ Kuno, 
you repeatedly wound my most sacred feelings, and only 
because you revel in my pain. If Egmont has any bad 
qualities, it is only because, alas! they are an inheritance 
from his ancestors, for his uncle, the Baron Kuno, was 
for his misdeeds discarded by his father, banished from 
court, and his escutcheon was trampled upon by the hang¬ 
man.” 

Kuno changed color and put his hand on his sword. 
He stepped back, but his sister followed him and held 
her little hand threateningly before his face. 

“Dare again to call my child a villian or rascal,” 
cried the baroness, quite beside herself with rage, “and 
our friendship, scarce begun, will come to a horrible 
end.” 

Kuno, who yet was influenced by some few chivalrous 
emotions, in so far at least as a lady was concerned, at¬ 
tempted to pacify his sister, but did not succeed until he 
assured her that he did not have so very bad an opinion 
of the last descendant of his family, for, as proof, did he 
not wish to procure the half of an immense fortune for 
him? 

“ Go to the prison,” said the baroness somewhat molli¬ 
fied; “take a look at the old Jewish hag and her degenerate 
son, and then tell me whother this boy with his curly, 
black hair, his piercing eyes and his robust frame looks 
like a good-natured child or a criminal.” 

His sister's description of the boy had attracted Kuno's 
attention; he asked her to repeat it, and then left the 
apartment to go and look at the Jews in the dungeon. 
When the door closed behind him, the baroness raised her 
hand threateningly. 

“Wretch!” cried she, “just work for me, murder for 
me, but you shall not have a cent from my son's inherit¬ 
ance. You deem yourself Qleyer, but a woman, a mother 


44 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 


who works for the welfare of her son cannot be out¬ 
witted. Just dare, when we have gained our end, to 
lay claim to the fortune and I will show you the swamp 
beneath the windows of my castle, and dread of the execu¬ 
tioner will seal your lips!” 

Kuno of Witzleb, as he walked though the corridors 
toward the prison, also had his private thoughts. 

“Just wait, serpent,” he thought; “you err greatly if 
you believe that your good-for-nothing son will ever see a 
cent of the whole inheritance. But I thank you for hav¬ 
ing brought me to the right track'. Do you think that 
Kuno of Witzleb is so foolish as to kill the goose which 
lays golden eggs? Do you think that he would throw 
the heir to such a fortune into a swamp and then go and 
tell it to his amiable sister? No, no, then my name 
would not be Kuno of Witzleb; the money and private 
property shall all be mine; your boy shall not even have 
the entailed estate*; sooner would I give them to the 
Jewish boy who is imprisoned here. Oh, my dear sister, 
if you would have bridled your tongue, and not called up 
old reminiscences for my edification, I might, perhaps, 
for the sake of the name to which I once had a right, 
have become lenient; but now, you and your sweet son 
may go a-begging for all I care.” 

Soliloquizing thus agreeably, Kuno had reached the 
entrance to the prison, a large, strong, iron-bound door, 
which was guarded quite unnecessarily by the old jailer, 
who, searching among a bunch of rusty keys, asked: 

“Does your lordship wish to see the woman or the 
boy?” 

“Are not both locked into the same cell?” 

“0, dear, no; both are in subterranean cells, there 
where neither light of day or night penetrates; but do 
you think that these two murderers would be put into 
one cell, so that they could take counsel with each other?” 

“ Well, then, lead me to the boy.” 

The jailer opened the iron door and stepped into the 
interior, followed by Kuno. It was a small, circular 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


45 


room, from which a flight of stone steps led to the dun¬ 
geon beneath. The jailer seized a lamp, drew flint and 
steel from his pockets, laid a piece of a sponge on the lat¬ 
ter, struck the steel on the flint until a spark, darting 
forth, ignited the sponge; then took a thread which 
had been immersed in sulphur, and, holding it over the 
sponge, blew on it until it caught fire, finally lighting 
the wick of the lamp with it—altogether a tedious opera¬ 
tion, of which our century, with its parlor matches and 
gas-jets, is happily rid. The jailer led the way, and 
Kuno followed, down a flight of at least thirty steps. 

Arrived below, Kuno saw, as far as the lamplight fell, 
nothing but heavy iron doors, let into massive walls, 
from which small streams of water trickled slowly. The 
jailer again searched among his bunch of keys, and when 
he had found the right one he opened the first door, 
which turned back, creaking on its hinges; the jailer 
held aloft his lamp, thus illuminating the dark cell. 

Kuno had hardly glanced in when he uttered a low 
cry, which was answered by a shriek of dread. Kuno had 
recognized the Jewish boy who had watched him a few 
days ago, and the latter remembered him as the man 
whom he had seen in the mysterious carriage! 


CHAPTER VI. 

KUNO’S TRIUMPH. 

Kuno remained standing in the doorway for a moment, 
and contemplated the poor boy, who, shivering with fear, 
crouched on a stone bench, the only piece of furniture 
the vault contained; then, taking the lamp from the jailer, 
Kuno signified to him to ascend the stairs again, and 
await him in the circular room above. 

The baron then approached the boy, placed the light 
on the lower end of the bench, and sat down next to poor 
Joseph, who fairly clung to the wall. 

“■ Why are you afraid of me, my boy?” asked Kuno, in 
a gentle voice, quite contrary to the tone the poor boy 



46 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


had expected. “Why are you afraid?” repeated Kuno, 
as Joseph still remained silent. 

“Because — because you — because I-” stammered 

Joseph. 

“ Because—I will tell you why—because you have a bad 
conscience; because you have concerned yourself about 
things which are of no consequence to you; because, with 
unpardonable curiosity, you watched, and tried to fathom 
the secret of another—a crime next to that of theft, and 
which already has cost many a one his head. Listen, my 
boy: although I myself am no angel, I may tell you that 
curiosity is a most reprehensible thing, and that eaves¬ 
dropping and watching, turn a person into the most mis¬ 
erable creature in existence, not only in my eyes, but in 
the eyes of all who still have a spark of honor in their 
hearts. Remember this, and should you ever be released 
from this dreadful dungeon, think of this hour, and of 
my warning. But tell me,” continued Kuno, in a lighter 
tone, “ how was it that you came to watch me?” 

In a trembling voice, which gradually grew firmer, 
Joseph proceeded to relate his adventure, even mention¬ 
ing the fact, that he had thought the carriage a phantom, 
and had been greatly afraid of it; amid sobs and tears, he 
added: “I know it was wrong to remain away from syna¬ 
gogue, and I even had in mind not to tell my mother of 
my remissness; these two crimes led to my misfortune, 
into which my poor, dear mother was dragged as my 
companion. Oh, if ever I should be released from this 
horrible prison, I would never again sin against my dear, 
precious mother.” 

“ Compose yourself, my boy,” said Kuno, with a hearti¬ 
ness no one would have credited him with, “compose 
yourself, and tell me if you can keep my secret.” 

“Yes, my lord,” answered Joseph, proudly, “I can be 
silent.” 

“But prying people cannot be silent.” 

“ I am not prying; I have told your lordship how it all 
Came about, and I never told a falsehood,” 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


47 


"Well, then, will you swear that you never will betray 
a word of what you saw that night ?” 

“ I promise it, but I cannot swear, your lordship, for 
God will not leave unpunished the one who takes his holy 
name in vain.” 

“But,” returned Kuno, and a sort of respect for the 
devout boy expressed itself on his countenance, “ you will 
not swear in vain; your liberty, nay, your life, may de¬ 
pend upon this oath.” 

Joseph ruminated for a while, then said: “I really 
think that this matter is important enough to give me 
liberty to take an oath. I will swear.” 

The baron drew forth a heavy golden cross, which he held 
to the boy, who shrank back in horror. “ I do not swear 
on the emblem of a cross,” said he. 

Joseph heaved a deep sigh; then the words came from 
his trembling lips, “ May God in His mercy protect me, 
but I would rather languish in this dungeon all the days 
of my life, ere I would swear.” 

A smile flitted across Kuno's emaciated face; he quickly 
put the cross away and said: 

“ Were I to weigh the manly character of this despised 
Jewish boy in the balance with that of my good-for- 
nothing nephew, I do not doubt which way it would in¬ 
cline.” Then he said aloud: “Ah, I forgot that you 
are a Jew, else I would not have placed such an emblem 
before you. Well, take my hand and swear that you will 
keep secret all that you saw that night, and anything that 
in the future you may discover in regard to it, until I 
give you leave to speak.” 

Joseph hesitatingly placed his hand into that of the 
baron, but he drew it back quickly, and said: “ No, no, 
I will not swear.” 

The baron's eyes flashed angrily. He sprang up and 
stood with drawn sword before the boy. 

“ Miserable fellow,” cried he, grinding his teeth, “ why 
will you not swear, do you want me to run my sword 
through your body?” 


48 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


“I cannot,” returned Joseph, with hated breath; “how 
do I know but what some wrong has been committed, to 
keep which secret would make me an accomplice and ac¬ 
cessory, for on that morning my poor mother said to me, 
f One who instigates or conceals a crime commits it as 
much as the criminal himself / ” 

Joseph’s mention of his mother gave the baron a good 
idea. 

“Look here, my hoy,” said he, “ I should like to pro¬ 
cure you your liberty, for you are a brave little fellow, 
and might become a good, great man; therefore I require 
your oath, otherwise my secret could remain forever 
buried with you and your mother in these walls. I gave 
you the opportunity, not only to save yourself, but your 
innocent mother; you refused to take it; remain here and 
add to your other crimes that of being the cause of your 
mother’s death.’ 

Kuno turned away hastily, and acted as about to leave 
the cell. 

Joseph uttered a heart-rending cry and convulsively 
clung to the baron’s cloak. The latter turned around 
again, and the boy fell on his knees. 

“Oh, have mercy, your lordship!” cried he; “spare 
my dear, good mother, she is innocent; do with me what 
you will, but have mercy on my dear, good mother.” 

“ No, no, there will be no mercy for your mother un¬ 
less you swear!” cried Kuno, hastily tearing his cloak 
from the boy’s hands, and seizing the door knob. 

“Pardon, sir! pardon!” wailed Joseph, “I will swear!” 

Kuno turned to the boy, who was sobbing violently, and 
again held out his hand. 

Joseph placed his within it and repeated word for word 
the dreadful oath which Kuno dictated; then he fell 
back sobbing on the stone bench and cried again and 
again: 

“Oh, what a sin! what a terrible sin!” 

Kuno stepped nearer to Joseph and asked him; 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


49 


“Tell me, my boy, what impelled you to throw the 
young Baron of Weiden into the swamp?” 

“I did not do it, your lordship; on the contrary, I 
warned him not to undertake the breakneck venture, I 
drew him forth when he fell in, I saved him, for it would 
have been too late when help from the castle arrived. 
Believe me, your lordship, believe me!” 

To Joseph's intense astonishment, Kuno said indiffer¬ 
ently: 

“ Of course, I believe you; I would believe a worse boy 
than you more than my noble nephew, and depend upon 
it I will do all in my power to liberate you as well as 
your mother from this dungeon, for you are a boy such as 
I have need of.” 

“Oh! my lord, you promised to release me if I would 
swear, and now you already break your word,” said Joseph, 
crying bitterly; “ but I might have known it; even a 
nobleman does not feel bound to keep his promise toward 
a Jew.” 

Kuno frowned darkly and said: 

“ Guard your tongue, my boy, guard your tongue, you 
do not know what you speak; but be assured of this, that 
were you of my belief you would languish here as long 
as it pleased Heaven and the baroness; yet just because 
you are a Jew you have found a protector in me.” In a 
tone inaudible to Joseph the baron continued: “All that 
I would refuse to people of my religion I grant to Jews, 
for there is a great resemblance between their condition 
and mine. They are the Pariahs of the community; I 
am thrust without the pale of aristocratic society.” 

“ So you will release us, noble sir, you will really re¬ 
lease us, and not detain my poor mother and me in this 
dungeon?” 

“Yes, yes, my boy, whatever Kuno of Witzlebmay be, 
his word is sacred to him; and if it were only to plague 
young Egmont, I will snatch you from his power.” 

Here the sudden appearance of the jailer interrupted 
the baron. 


50 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


“ Your lordship,” cried he, “the baroness desires to 
see you immediately; something dreadful must have 
happened, for the servant told me that the baroness is 
quite beside herself with grief.” 

“You will hear from me soon,” cried the baron, hastily 
leaving the cell, which the jailer again securely locked, 
thus leaving the poor boy to the gloomy despair on which 
a momentary ray of hope had fallen. 

When the baron re-entered the reception hall, he could 
hardly recognize his sister. The noble lady ran like a 
crazed hyena up and down the apartment, followed by 
her hopeful son, who wajled incessantly: “ Boo-hoo, boo- 
hoo-hoo.” 

Torn bits of paper were scattered on the floor, and a 
great red seal, broken in the center, lay on the table. 

“ Why, what is the matter, dear Tekla,” asked Kuno, 
in surprise. 

“Here, read!” cried Tekla, shrilly* 

“Well, what shall I read?” asked Kuno. 

Tekla suddenly remembered that there was nothing to 
read any more, as the torn bits of paper on Ihe floor 
plainly testified. 

“ Boo-hoo-hoo!” wailed the young Baron of Weiden. 

“It is shameful, it is atrocious, it will kill me and my 
poor defenseless, fatherless child,” cried Tekla, wringing 
her hands, w r hile heavy tears coursed down her cheeks. 

“ Boo-hoo-hoo!” 

“ Do come to your senses, for Heaven’s sake, Tekla; 
and you, you puppy, cease your whimpering,” cried 
Kuno, now seriously vexed. “What has happened?” 

“A courier from the duke, boo-hoo-hoo,” howled 
Egmont.” 

Kuno grew pale, for no good to the house of Weiden 
could come from the duke, with whom he had long lived 
in open enmity. For one moment he was really foolish 
enough to believe that his sister and her son were overcome 
with grief on his account, and that the duke’s message 
concerned him; but he quickly cast away this thought. 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


51 


“Well, what did the courier bring?” 

‘ ‘ A command from the duke to release those misera¬ 
ble Jewish murderers, and not to molest them any more/’ 
cried the enraged baroness. 

“ Boo-hoo-hoo, and I anticipated their torture so 
much," whimpered her grievously disappointed son. 

“Yes, I believe you, kind heart," said Kuno, mock¬ 
ingly. “But how did this come about?" 

“How do I know?" cried Tekla. “The devil must be 
their ally; but I will not release them; I will let them 
starve, add then say they died before the courier’s ar¬ 
rival." 

The young baron’s face grew brighter and he said: 

“Yes, yes, mamma, let them starve; that is right, 
mamma!" 

“Keptile! muttered Kuno; then turning to his sister , 
he said: “Hear Tekla, I hope you will deliberate a 
while before you execute your humane plan. Consider 
what influence must have been at work to cause the duke 
not only to order the release of your prisoners, but to send 
a special courier with the decree." 

“Oh, brother, you do not know all! Oh, these ac¬ 
cursed Jews! My poor little Egmont-" 

“ Boo-hoo-hoo!" 

“ My poor little Egmont is to go to the military school, 
in order, as the old tyrant says, to be cured of his 
naughtiness. How low, how absurd—my poor Egmont 
naughty!" 

Kuno gave vent to a long whistle. The tidings sur¬ 
prised him, but his face fairly beamed with malicious 
joy. 

“H-m—h-m!" said he, consideringly; “whose hands 
must have been at work here; how has the duke been 
informed of the whole affair? Kuno, Kuno," he mut¬ 
tered, “if you understand aright which way the wind 
blows, remain good friends with the Jewish boy, for a 
new star is arising in Israel!" 

The baron comfortably seated himself on a chair; his 


52 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


sister and her hopeful son were still running frantically 
up and down the apartment. 

“ Weil, dear sister," he said, in high good humor, 
“ what have you resolved upon?" 

“I suppose I will have to release the dirty pack; don’t 
you think so?" 

“ Certainly, certainly; there is no question about that; 
but hasten to do it, for the duke is an old soldier, and 
requires strict obedience to his commands." 

“ Well, then, I must send to the dungeon," said the 
baroness, biting her lips with rage. 

But this did not suit Kuno’s plan; the Jewish boy 
must owe his liberty to him , and remain* his friend; for 
who could know what might happen; and, besides, his 
sister must not profit by that which could be of use to 
him. For this reason, Kuno said: “ Let them grumble 
a while longer. I do not want you to excite yourself any 
more by giving the command for the release of the prison¬ 
ers; I will go down myself, by and by, and see to it. But 
I did not allude to this. I mean, what have you resolved 
upon doing in regard to your vil-Egmont?" 

“Boo-hoo-hoo!" howled Egmont again. 

“ I have decided. I will not deliver the poor, delicate 
child to the rough hands of soldiers." 

Kuno shook his head, doubtfully; then, as if trying 
to persuade her, he said: “ Dear Tekla, if I were in your 
place, I would rather not do such a thing; it is somewhat 
dangerous to oppose the old gentleman’s will. I have had 
occasion to find that out." 

“AYhat can he do to a woman? lie cannot banish me 
from court, because I do not go there; nor exile me to my 
estates, for I have none!" 

“ But y°ur ras-your Egmont’s future lies in the 

hands of this tyrant!" 

“Alas! yes," sobbed the baroness. 

“ And the duke is a genuine tyrant—a second Caligula, 
when his will is crossed," related Kuno. “ 1 remember 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


5b 


how, about thirty years ago, he ordered one of his cadets 
to be whipped unmercifully.” 

“Almighty God, support me!” shrieked the horrified 
baroness, covering her face with her hands, while Egmont 
again took up the refrain: 

‘ f Boo-hoo-hoo! wh ipped u nmercifully—boo-hoo-h oo!” 

Kuno forcibly kept down his merriment, and went on 
to comfort his weeping sister, now and then interposing 
some anecdotes of the old duke's cruelty, so that alto¬ 
gether his soothing words did not take much effect. 

Finally the baroness asked Kuno if he knew how the 
cadets in the military schools were treated. 

“The duke,” recounted Kuno, “causes his cadets to 
be trained strictly in accordance with the Spartan model; 
I need not tell you, Egmont, what this means, for your 
tutor has without doubt made you very well acquainted 
with the history of the ancients; but you, dear sister, may 
not know much about it.” 

“Oh, my God, no!” wailed the baroness; “I do not, 
but yet I shudder.” 

“You need not shudder, it is nothing so terrible,” re¬ 
turned Kuno, assuming a soothing tone; “it is a mode of 
training that hardens boys. Their food consists of the 
so-called black soup, a mixture of stale bread and good¬ 
ness knows what other ingredients. In order to sharpen 
their apj)etites the cadets must saw wood, mold bricks, 
cut hay, in short exercise their bodies in many similar 
ways, which no doubt your Egmont will be greatly pleased 
with. After every meal each pupil is treated with a 
whipping-” 

“ Boo-hoo-hoo!” 

“And if he cries he is beaten until he is quiet.” 

“ Oh, brother, this is inhuman; but you are joking.” 

“Just ask Egmont whether the Spartan boys were not 
subjected to like treatment.” 

“Yes, yes, mamma; just about the same,” howled 
Egmont, who knew as little about the Spartans as his 
mother, but did not *Jike to confess his ignorance. 



54 


THE WIDOW'S SON: 

“No, no,” cried his mother, “ I will never let my only 
child go there.” 

“■ Just think of the whipping, mamma,” cried Egrnont 

in despair. , 

“You may dispose of your child as you like, said 
Kuno, “but I would advise you to swallow this pill, bitter 
as it is, and send your boy to the duke. It may be best 
for all concerned.” 

“Oh, who has done this,” cried the baroness; “who 
has so shamefully maligned, traduced me to the duke?” 

“ Your own son is to blame, and now he may bear the 
consequences, whippings, black soup, etc.” 

“But how? what has the poor child done?” 

“Probably an disinterested person witnessed the whole 
occurrence,” said Kuno, “and reported to the duke how 
abominably Egrnont lied when he said that the Jewish 
boy attempted to murder him.” 

“ Oh, if I had known that,” howled Egrnont, “I would 
not have said it.” 

“Are you convinced now that I guessed aright?” cried 
Kuno; “the rascal has lied from beginning to end, and a 
mitigation of his fate can only be brought about by a full 
confession, for it is my opinion that the duke only desires 
his presence at court in order to force a confession of his 
lie from him by means of torture.” 

“Oh, pardon, pardon!” cried Egrnont, “I am ready to 
confess everything. I fell into the swamp by accident; 
the Jew had warned me not to step on the slippery lags; 
I did so, nevertheless, and when he saw my peril, he, at 
the risk of his own life, came to my rescue, although I 
had derided him.” 

“I knew it,” cried Kuno. “What do you say now, 
sister? The sooner you deliver the boy to the duke's 
keeping, the better for you. I only frightened him a 
little, and now his black heart is plainly revealed. Fare 
you well; I go to release the Jews r from their confine-, 
ment,” 



THE WIDOW'S SON. 


55 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE PREPARATION DAY OP THE HEBREW HEW YEAR. 

When Joseph and his mother reappeared in the Jew’s 
lane, they were welcomed by demonstrations of triumph¬ 
ant joy. The whole Jewish population, young and 
old, men and women, hastened forth to greet them. It 
was the eye of New Year, and every one had remained in 
the village in order to make due preparations for the holy 
festival. 

It seemed as if the hand-shaking and congratulations 
would never eud. But it cannot be said that the joy of 
the Jews of Immenfeld was not egotistical, and that they 
rejoiced so immoderately at the widow’s and her son’s 
release; no, each one was glad on his own account Any 
one who knows the danger which in those days threatened 
a whole Jewish community when one, be it even the least 
among them, was seized by the hands of justice, will 
easily comprehend why the Jews of Immenfeld were so 
joyful. In most cases the crime of one single person was 
with the most refined cunning thrown to the blame of 
the whole community, thus affording a pretext to wreak 
vengeance on the hated Jews. Although considerably 
weakened, this practice is not unusual even at the 
present day. When some one who happens to belong to 
the Jewish race commits a dishonest act, how often is not 
the judgment heard: “ Yes, yes, the Jews are swindlers!” 
while no one will think of holding a whole people of 
another faith responsible for what one of them has com¬ 
mitted. 

Soon old Rabbi Moses Benrimo also came up to the 
released prisoners. He stretched out his hand to the boy, 
who seized it eagerly and kissed it in the face of the 
whole congregation. Mother Bonafit uttered a cry of 
horror, and violently tore her son away, while murmurs 
of displeasure arose among the bystanders. 

“Almighty God, what are you doing?” cried Mrs. 
Bonafit, “ to kiss the hand of an unbeliever. Have you 


56 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


forgotten that you are a Jew, and do you want to draw 
the wrath of God on Israel again?” 

“ Let me alone, mother,” cried Joseph, blushing with 
shame, “let me alone; this man is no renegade, he is a 
good, noble man.” 

“ How can yon sin so against God, against your mother 
and against Israel, as to call a person who has been ex¬ 
communicated by the congregation a good man.” 

Benrimo smiled painfully; he signed to Joseph to put 
an end to the scene, but the boy, suddenly overcome by a 
singular stubborness, clung to the hand of his benefactor. 
An undefined suspicion arose in him that this man had 
done more for him than his abusers. 

His mother again attempted to draw the boy away, but 
the latter was ashamed to turn his back in such a cowardly 
manner on the Spaniard, whom he had but now greeted 
so gladly. 

Mrs. Bonafit burst into tears and sobs. 

“God be merciful to me,” she wailed, “my boy is done 
for; first, he brings his poor mother into imprisonment, and 
then he remains standing with that renegade in the 
open street.” 

The women on beholding Mrs. Bonafit’s tears fell on 
her with many soothing and pitying words, and led her 
back to her little hut, in which, as we know, everything 
had been ruthlessly destroyed. 

The boy’s heart was for the first time filled with anger 
against the people among whom he had been born, raised, 
and with whom he had spent his childhood; he dropped 
the Spaniard’s hand and with head bent was about to 
follow his mother, when he was again detained: 

“Joseph,” said Spaniard, “you and your mother can¬ 
not keep yom-tob (holiday) in that house; I have fur¬ 
nished two rooms nicely for you; come and take posses¬ 
sion of them.” 

Joseph shook his head sorrowfully, and while the tears 
filled his eyes he turned to follow his still lamenting 
mother. 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


57 


“ Bitter is the fruit from the tree of knowledge,” mut¬ 
tered the Spaniard, as he likewise turned his steps home¬ 
ward; “you will find this out soon enough, my boy; hut 
if you are ever destined to enter i?ito the path of glory , 
you have to-day cleared away the first obstacle in your 
way !” 

To the credit of the Jews of Immenfeld, be it said, they 
went to work with a will at rendering the widow's little 
hut as habitable as possible before the holiday set in. One 
brought a piece of furniture, another bread, a third cake, 
a fourth and fifth meat; several families sent their maid¬ 
servants to scrub and clean the interior of the little hut; 
some young men temporarily stopped up the gaps in the 
window frames with oiled paper; in short, every one lent 
a helping hand, and before the sexton went the rounds to 
summon the people to the synagogue, the little house was 
as comfortably furnished and provided with all necessaries 
as it had ever been. 

But something which had never failed to be there was 
wanting in the little house—a link which had never been 
lacking as long as the widow could remember—some¬ 
thing that gave brilliancy to the Sabbath lamp, bright¬ 
ness to the table-cloth, warmth to the heart; that was— 
peace. 

Joseph had essayed several times to approach his 
mother, but she waved him back each time, while break¬ 
ing anew into sobs and lamentations. 

Joseph sat down in the doorway of the hut and hid his 
face in his hands. Now and then some curious person, 
or some of his comrades, stopped to question him about 
his imprisonment; but he did not answer. This tended 
considerably to heighten the displeasure which his famil¬ 
iarity with Spaniard had called forth. Evening set in, 
and when Joseph at last lifted up his head, he saw men 
and women, in holiday attire, hurrying past to the syna¬ 
gogue; he arose and went into the house to wash and 
dress himself. His best clothes were already laid out; he 
quickly donned them, and when he again stepped from 


58 THE WIDOW'S SON. 

the house, he became aware that his mother had not 
awaited him as usual, but had gone on alone to the syna¬ 
gogue. Sorrowfully, and with a heavy step, he walked 
along to the festive service, where the greater part of the 
congregation were already collected, and, in subdued 
silence, were awaiting the commencement of the solemn 
devotions. 

Joseph walked to the seat which had once been his 
father’s, and looked longingly over to where his mother 
sat in the women’s gallery, which was screened by a high 
railing. 

Joseph’s thoughts were more with his mother than with 
his prayers. Finally, the closing praye”, the Yigdel, was 
sung, with a mournful cadence, as it is sung only twice 
in the year—on New Year and Day of Atonement. The 
members of the congregation wished each other a “Happy 
New Year mothers kissed their sons, laid their hands 
in blessing on their heads, saying: “ May God let you 
become like Ephraim and Manasse!” Joseph wept aloud; 
thus had his father blessed him , that father who had been 
so enlightened, and had never called the Spaniard a rene¬ 
gade. 

All, all were joyous; all were happy; only the poor 
orphan, who had no father to bless him, was neglected. 
The glory which had surrounded him that morning was 
gone; nay, it seemed to him that disagreeable and even 
contemptuous looks were directed at him. 

Sorrowfully as he had come, Joseph walked home again. 
He was the last one to leave the house of prayer. 

When he passed the Spaniard’s house, he saw the win¬ 
dows all alight. He peeped in guardedly and saw the 
great Sabbath lamp hanging from the ceiling. The Span-, 
iard himself, attired in festal garb, stood beneath it, 
completely absorbed in his prayer-book. 

“And this man was excommunicated, and is called a 
renegade,” murmured Joseph, as he sorrowfully pro¬ 
ceeded on his way home. When he reached his mother’s 
house, he saw there also the bright rays of the Sabbath 



59 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 

lamp streaming out into the street. Softly, softly like a 
thief he. stole up the stairs, gently he laid his hand on the 
knob, the door flew open, and he saw his mother, all 
dressed in white, with the full glow of the Sabbath lamp 
falling on her. She had just laid down her prayer-book. 
Joseph uttered aery. Never had New Year seemed so 
painful to him before. He threw away his book, and 
with a cry: “Mother, dear good mother!" he rushed for¬ 
ward to embrace her; and she opened her arms and held 
him close. The tears choked her voice as she whispered: 
“A happy, happy New Year, my life, my son, my all!" 
And then she placed her hand on his head and said: 
“May God let you become like Ephraim and Manasse!" 

And when later on they, according to usage in vogue, 
were eating the sweet apple dipped in honey, Joseph 
said: “Oh, mother, may God sweeten this year and all 
the years of our life, amen!" After supper mother and 
son discussed their recent dreadful adventure, and again 
the mother warned her son to remain pious and godly, 
not to walk in the ways of the wicked, and to keep afar 
from such men as the Spaniard. 

The evening advanced, and Joseph’s mother bade him 
to retire to rest. He took his prayer-book and devoutly 
repeated the night prayer, that most beautiful of all de¬ 
votions, which, besides the psalms, contains so many pure, 
angelic sayings. 

When Joseph came to the partin the psalm: “ He will 
surely deliver thee from the snare of the fowler and the 
plague of wickedness," he fervently raised his eyes and 
thanked God that He had released him from the dark 
dungeon and restored him to light and liberty. Joseph 
ardently prayed for God’s protection, and that his couch 
might be surrounded by angels—at his right hand the 
angel Michael, at his left hand the angel Gabriel, Uriel 
before him, the guardian angel Raphael back of him, and 
God himself, in His glorious majesty above him. 

Joseph’s mother had gone to bed before he finished his 
prayer; tired and exhausted from all the horrors she had 


60 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


lately undergone, and the work of preparing for the 
holiday, she soon fell into a deep slumber. Joseph closed 
his book and looked thoughtfully into the few remaining 
lights of the Sabbath lamp still struggling for life, which 
yet was no life, but rather a slow and painful death. 
Now one of these went out, the room was wrapt in partial 
darkness, and wonderful shadows caused by the uneasy 
flickering of the two remaining lights flitted along the 
wall. 

Despite his mother’s warning, Joseph could not forget 
the old Spaniard to whom he felt himself powerfully at¬ 
tracted. His childish imagination repeatedly called up 
the old man’s kindly face. At times it seemed to him as 
if he had found a second father, one who combined with 
his own father’s kindness of heart a higher intelligence 
of mind and more of wordly wisdom. 

Joseph could not sleep. He looked unceasingly into 
the last lights of the Sabbath lamp, which, almost ex¬ 
hausted, hastly consumed the remaining oil and flashed up 
repeatedly like the last sighs of a dying man. In the partial 
darkness of the room the lamp appeared to him like a 
great head and the two lights like the eyes of the 
Spaniard which winked at him continually and beckoned 
a magic “Come, come.” 

“Yes, I come!” cried Joseph, and with one bound he 
had reached the door. 

The lights had gone out. 

Joseph slipped off his shoes and glided down the stairs. 
Arrived in the street he put them on again and looked 
around carefully in all directions. There was not a 
human being in sight; the few remaing lights from the 
various Sabbath lamps looked out like sleepy little eyes 
into the deserted street. Joseph hastened down the street 
and halted before the Spaniard’s house. Here also but 
two lights were still burning. The Spaniard himself was 
fast asleep in a chair by the window. Joseph considered 
for a while; then he knocked softly with bent finger on 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


61 


the window pane, which; as on the ground-floor of most 
houses of that period, lay within his reach. 

Although Joseph’s knock was almost inaudible, the 
Spaniard started up and growled such a “ Who’s there ” that 
the boy almost fainted with fear. But now the window 
was thrown open, the Spaniard put out his head and 
recognized Joseph; A cry of joy escaped, him and he 
called out softy: 

“Ah, it is you, my dear boy; and you are come to wish 
me a happy New Year.” 

“Yes, yes,” whispered Joseph, hurriedly, “but please 
open the door for me, I must speak to you; oh, hurry, 
sir, before the night-watchman comes to this corner and 
perhaps catches sight of me.” 

“ Here, take the key, and spare me the journey to the 
door,” said the Spaniard, handing a large iron key to 
Joseph. “You know that I am not fleet of foot.” 

Joseph did as he was bid, and at the next moment was 
in the room and holding both of the Spaniard’s hands. 

“Pardon me, Mr. Spaniard,” said Joseph, timidly, 
“for coming at such a late hour.” 2 

“No excuses; come, take a candle from the bureau and 
light it.” 

When the candle was lit and replaced on the bureau, 
the Spaniard asked: 

“Well, my good boy, what do you wish to say to me?” 

“Mr. Spaniard-” 

“One moment, Joseph,” broke in the old man, “I will 
intrust you with a secret; my name is not Spaniard, 
and I think it is ridiculous for people who have a liking 
for me to address me by a name which my enemies have 
given me. Call me Moses, for my name is Moses Ben- 
rimo.” 

“ Then allow me to call you Rabbi Moses, and excuse 
me that I have hitherto called you Spaniard, but I 
thought that was your name.” 

“I excuse you, my boy, and also give you permission 
to call me Rabbi Moses, for it is a title I am proud of, as 


62 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


it was conferred on me in the Yeshibah (Jewish high 
school) of Amsterdam. But here I am chatting away, 
and do not yet know what I can do for you.” 

“ Rabbi Moses, I want to learn,” cried the hoy, enthu¬ 
siastically. “ I want to learn everything—all the sciences 
which the people of the land learn.” 

The face of old Moses beamed with joy; he agitatedly 
stroked his majestic mustache; then, in deep emotion., 
placed his hand on the boy’s head, and blessed him with 
the blessing Joseph had that evening so sorely missed in 
the synagogue; and the boy devoutly bent his head before 
the man who was outlawed by his people. 

A holy awe overcame the boy; a father’s hands had 
blessed him; he kissed them ardently. 

“When, my son, will you begin your lessons?” asked 
Moses, kindly. 

“I can only come at nights, and will gladly sacrifice a 
few hours’ sleep, if it would not be too troublesome for 
you, Rabbi; for I would not like to grieve my mother 
again,” returned Joseph. 

“ That is right, my son. I do not require much sleep, 
and your self-sacrifice will be repaid doubly and trebly. 
Our great teacher Hillel studied only by night, for he 
had to work for his sustenance by day. ” 

* * * * * * 

The sky was gray in the east, and the sexton’s shrill 
voice was summoning worshippers to assemble for prayers, 
when Joseph entered his little room and threw himself 
on his bed; and his mother had the greatest trouble to 
rouse him from his apparently deep sleep. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE APPROACHING PEAST OF CONFIRMATION. 

On the first day of New Year the news that Cobbler 
Christian had disappeared, spread like wildfire. All the 
Jews of Immenfeld knew the old drunkard, many were 
unpleasantly surprised by the news, for ignorance of the 



THE WIDOW'S SON. 


63 


fate of the torn boots and shoes intrusted to the cobbler’s 
skill spoiled many a one’s enjoyment of the holiday, and 
this they would not desecrate by instituting inquiries. 

But soon they received the comforting news from the 
Gentiles of the village that the cobbler had left everything 
behind him, even his furniture, and that nothing would 
have led to the supposition of Christian’s departure, 
had not a note, fastened to the door, given notice thereof. 
This note, which, however, could not proceed from 
Christian himself, as he did not know how to write, con¬ 
tained news that he was gone never to return. 

Joseph Bonafit was powerfully affected by this startling 
intelligence. Vividly it occurred to his mind that this 
had a close connection with the mystery he had been a 
witness of. He tormented himself unmercifully to find 
the right clew, but in vain. What would he not have 
given to be at liberty to confide his secret to Benrimo, but 
he was bound by his oath. 

When Joseph’s mother had retired to rest that evening, 
he, as on the night before, rose from his bed, which he 
had sought at an early hour, and repaired to Benrimo’s 
house. And thus Joseph continued to pay his nightly 
visits to his learned patron and friend, never failing to ap¬ 
pear at the appointed hour. After surmounting the 
difficulties of the German language, both in reading and 
writing, he studied history, geography, arithmetic, and 
listened with strained attention to his master’s discourse. 
And when the old rabbi explained in a natural manner 
the many miracles of the Bible, when he spoke of the 
science of chemistry, which, although then in its infancy, 
could already work greater miracles than those of which 
the ancients told, Joseq>h was completely carried away by 
admiration. 

“ You are like a prophet, Babbi Moses,” murmured the 
boy, a sacred awe upon him, “like a prophet who has 
the power of seeing into the future.” 

“ It is no wonderful thing nowadays to be a prophet,” 
returned Benrimo, “just as it never was difficult to wise 


64 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 


and thinking men of all times and countries to foretell the 
future, for he who compares past and present aright, and 
understands how to infer the effect from the cause, can 
easily foresee what is to come. Nature forever moves in 
accordance with fixed laws, and we have hut to subor¬ 
dinate ourselves to these; therefore, any one who thinks 
must he able to calculate how long, for instance, it would 
take the inferior of two neighboring tribes to raise itself 
to the other’s might and power, and to successfully at¬ 
tack and conquer it. 

“ He who observes and thinks will always find some place 
in history on which to base his prophecies; he sees, for 
instance, how one nation, in the continuous struggle for 
pre-eminence, reached a zenith of glory, then quickly 
deteriorated from it, thus giving room to some other. 

“ In olden times, the reverence with which the people 
regarded their prophets was fully justified, for they far 
exceeded the common masses in wisdom and knowledge, 
and the one who acquires knowledge because he thinks it 
something infinitely desirable, is at all times a prophet, 
for the masses regard him with veneration, his equals 
with respect, and those high in office with favor. As in 
former times the world belonged to the mighty, as it now 
belongs to the wealthy, a time will come when those who 
are rich in knowledge will rule it absolutely.” 

If the Jewish citizens of Immenfeld had listened to this 
discourse, they would have excommunicated Benrimo at 
least half a dozen times more; but they did not hear it, 
for the night-watchman was just calling out the second 
hour after midnight, and Joseph arose to depart. 

* 

While with Benrimo, Joseph had completely forgotten 
Cobbler Christian and his secret; but in his little bed it 
oppressed his heart again like a heavy weight. If he 
could only have spoken about it, but he durst not! 

As his thoughts continually revolved about the same 
axis, it was but natural that, as he and his mother were 
sitting at their breakfast, he suddenly asked: 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 


65 


“ Mother, dear, do you know the gentleman to whom 
we owe our liberty?” 

“Lead me not into the way of the wicked,” murmured 
his mother, instead of an answer. 

“But you seem to know him?” urgently asked Joseph 
again. 

“ He is the brother of that wicked woman who perse¬ 
cuted us,” his mother now answered. 

Joseph clapped his hand on his forehead. Why did he 
not think of this before? Had not the baron’s resem¬ 
blance to the gentleman already surprised him? 

“Can you tell me some particulars about Cobbler 
Christian?” 

“ My son, what nonsense you talk; these two persons 
must not be spoken nor even thought of!” 

“It’s remarkable,” muttered Joseph; “even mother 
puts the nobleman and the cobbler into one category.” 

“ Do you not know,” began Joseph aloud, casting 
down his eyes in order to avoid meeting his mother’s 
reproving look, “as you know the gentleman, whether he 
is on good terms with young Baron Egmont?” 

“I forbid your mentioning the name of this young 
enemy of Israel within my four walls. I have grown old 
enough to know that you have in him a persecutor who 
will render your life a constant fear.” 

“I fear no one. I need not shun the light of day. I 
leave those whose deeds are dark to fear,” returned 
Joseph, sullenly. 

He arose and, taking his prayer-book, prepared to goto 
synagogue, whither he was accompanied by his mother, 
for it was a Sabbath eve. It was still very early, and when 
the two passed Benrimo’s house it was quite dark, while 
lights twinkled from all the other houses in Jew’s Lane. 
Mrs. Bonafit remarked to her son: 

“This is also one of whom you must beware, as he has 
been excommunicated by our congregation. ” 

* * * * * * * 

Hard times had come to Joseph. During the day he 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 


studied for his bar-mitzvah and attended the heeler 
(school), and at night he stole away to his new instructor. 
But above all he was tormented by the criminal to him. 

Gradually he came to the resolve to fathom it, even 
were it to he his ruin. 

He was very well aware that a never-ending enmity ex¬ 
isted between the young baron and himself, but the former 
could not have a more bitter feeling against him than he 
to Egmont. He thought and calculated, and as Benrimo's 
instruction had sensibly sharpened his intellect, he came 
to the conclusion that sure preventive against the malevo- 
ence of the nephew. 

Joseph's nightly visits to Benrimo’s house were regu¬ 
larly continued; the lessons which he there received could 
not fail to give him a polish and style of speech very 
unusual in the Ghetto. Mrs. Bonafit was the first to 
notice this change in her son; she vainly tormented her¬ 
self as to what could have caused it, and resolved to ob¬ 
serve him closely, hut as her duties—nursing the sick— 
left her very little leisure, Joseph was enabled to con¬ 
tinue his nightly journeys unmolested. 

Six months had passed in this wise, spring had come, 
preparations were already being made for the feast of the 
Passover, and Mrs. Bonafit was soon to have that happi¬ 
ness, which most parents so longingly wish for, the 
pleasure of seeing her son take the “ sweet yoke of the 
Thorah” upon himself for the first time; he was to become 
tar-mitzvah. Evening after evening mother and son sat 
together, and the former warned her son to deliver his 
Sidrah (section of the Thorah) in a creditable manner, 
and to show no timidity, for it would bring her to her 
grave if the people would say of her son, her all, that he 
had not learned his assigned portion well; all the more as 
the whole congregation did not look upon him very favor¬ 
ably since the day before New Year when he had shown 
such familiarity to the Spaniard. If ever a poor woman, 
whose only possession in the world was her child, felt 
happy, it was the mother of Joseph, She had erected the 



THE WIDOW'S SON. 


most beautiful air castles: on the day after Joseph’s con¬ 
firmation, she would, with the few florins she had saved, 
buy some little fancy wares; with these he could begin a 
little trade, which in time would make him a rich man 
and enable him to brighten the days of her old age. 
But three days were wanting to the eventful Sabbath; 
then only two—now it was Friday evening and to-morrow 
—to-morrow Mrs. Bonafit would have a son looked upon, 
in a religious point of view, as being of full age; a man, 
yoked with the fulfillment of the laws contained in the 
Thorah. 

That evening Mrs. Bonafit sat up later than usual, 
speaking to her son of the eventful morrow. But at last, 
much to Joseph’s relief, she retired to rest. He was quite 
happy when he heard her regular breathing, for this was 
to him the signal that he might safely leave the house. 
He arose from his couch, slipped out of the door and 
hastened to his kind teacher, who had promised him to 
make use of his right, for the first time in ten years, on 
to-morrow, in order to listen to Joseph’s delivery, from 
the entrance-hall of the synagogue. 

The morning sun shone brightly into Mrs. Bonafit’s 
room; its rays fell on her peaceful countenance, as if 
wishful to arouse her on her only son’s day of honor. 
And they succeeded in doing so. The good woman 
opened her eyes, ruminated a moment, then with the glad 
words: “Praised be God” she jumped up briskly. While 
she was dressing she repeatedly called out her son’s 
name with the loving intonation only a mother’s voice 
can express. Pure, unalloyed happiness rested on her 
countenance. 

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Bonafit to herself, “why 
that boy needs so much waking, and just to-day, on his 
gala day; but the young sleep soundly.” 

Mrs. Bonafit stepped into the alcove which we de¬ 
scribed once before, and mechanically lifted her hand to 
awaken her son. But suddenly her eyes grew fixed, her 


68 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


face paled to the hue of death; trembling, she clung for 
support to the bed. It was empty! 

“ Oh, God, punish me not so severely!” she murmured 
weakly. “ Perhaps the sun did not let him sleep and he 
is gone out; he may he in the street; why do I fear? I 
will not be anxious, he is no baby any more; no doubt I 
will often miss him morning and evening after he is con¬ 
firmed, why should I be anxious?” 

But the poor woman’s face and tottering walk contra¬ 
dicted her words. She dragged herself to the door, looked 
up and down the street; her voice grew more and more 
anxious; her trembling knees threatened to give way 
beneath her. “Joseph! Joseph!” she cried, at first with 
smothered voice, then louder and shriller, at last frantic¬ 
ally, as no Joseph appeared. The neighbors, startled by 
the unwonted sounds, came forth from their houses; 
they helped to search and call, but no sign of Joseph 
could they discover. The morning advanced, the men 
assembled in the synagogue, the service began, but still 
no Joseph made his appearance. The Hasan (reader) 
took forth the Thorah, and was himself obliged to read 
the section the truant boy ought that day to have de¬ 
livered; and as he had depended on Joseph, and thus 
failed to prepare himself, for this Sabbath the congrega¬ 
tion had to listen to a rather bungling recitation instead 
of the smooth one they had confidently expected. 

In the meanwhile all this anxiety aud grief had com¬ 
pletely prostrated poor Mrs. Bonafit. She lay tossing 
about on her bed in a high fever, unconscious of what was 
transpiring around her, recognizing no one, yet constantly 
repeating in her delirium the sidrah which she had heard 
Joseph study every night during the past preceding 
months, and had it been Joseph’s fate to read it that day 
in the synagogue, it would have redounded immensely to 
his credit, if he had intoned it as correctly as his poor 
mother now did in her delirium. 



THE WIDOW'S SON, 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE IEOH DOOR. 

Ih the city where Duke Francis XII. of Wimmerstein 
dwelt, there was a street called Rubbish lane. It formed 
part of the Ghetto, which consisted of several gloomy and 
dirty streets. The ground floor of each house was filled 
with all sorts of rubbish and lumber. Here they could 
buy some tarnished ornaments that had once adorned a 
nobleman's castle, or a broken table that had disfigured 
a peasant's cot. Here the beggar exchanged his rags for 
others, the reduced nobleman purchased a worn velvet 
cloak or a moth-eaten cap, and pawned his rapier in a 
shop close by. Here the school-boy bought copy-books, 
the soldier brandy, the juggler cards, the gambler loaded 
dice, the burglar tools, the pickpocket scissors. Every¬ 
thing you saw was old, faded, bent or torn. Hence a 
splendid show-window, in which brightly-polished weapons 
were exhibited to attract purchasers, excited all the more 
attention. And even more remarkable than the splendid 
show-window was the handsome sign, painted in blue and 
gold, which hung over the door, and bore, in striking 
contrast to all the Isaacs, Samuels, Davids, etc., on the 
other dirty signs, a genuine Gentile appellation. “Augus¬ 
tus Heberline, Furbisher," was the inscription on the 
handsome signboard. 

Did you enter the store of this armorer, you encoun¬ 
tered an aged man, with a long, waving, white beard, 
who courteously inquired your wishes, showed you weap¬ 
ons, but always demanded a price so exorbitant that you 
could purchase nothing. 

Hone of the Jewish traders in the neighborhood had 
ever seen a customer depart from Heberline's store with a 
weapon he had bought there; all came forth vexed and 
disappointed, and generally directed their steps to one of 
the numerous second-hand shops where they could pur¬ 
chase at more reasonable rates. 

At first, which was now some time ago, there was much 


W 


r CHE WIDOW’S SON. 

laughing at the expense of the Gentile armorer, who 
thought to compete with all the surrounding Jewish 
tradesmen, and a speedy ruin was predicted for him; 
however, since then, many of the other shops had time 
and again changed owners, while the armorer maintained 
his post, kept his windows bright and his weapons pol¬ 
ished) although he never took in a cent of money. 

It is conceivable that such sagacious people as Jews are 
—people who can so accurately calculate receipts and ex- 
penses-^should soon feel astonishment at such a business 
and its owner, and in Rubbish lane it was quite openly 
rumored that the brightly polished weapons in the show- 
window only served as a blind for something not quite so 
bright as they. 

As the Jews of that time went very early to the syna¬ 
gogues at a certain season of the year, they could not fail 
to see men, who, to judge from their dress, were armorers, 
enter and leave the house of Augustus Heberline. But, 
where so many armorers were employed, and especially 
at a time when other people still sleep, there must either 
be a considerable sale or an ample stock. All the Jews 
in Rubbish lane very well knew that the former was not 
the case; and that the latter was likewise improbable 
was proven by the fact that the weapons in the show-win¬ 
dows were never increased by any addition, nor the 
shelves in the store enriched by as much as two pistols or 
swords. 

That a Gentile at that time settled among Jews was in 
itself a rare occurrence enough, but that he should keep 
a secret to himself, the inhabitants of Rubbish lane could 
not endure. The most inquisitive of all was Levi Pinkus, 
a man, who, by virtue of his position, ought to have been 
least troubled by this vice; he was the president of the 
congregation. At first, Pinkus had made friendly ad¬ 
vances to Mr. Heberline, who was his next-door neighbor; 
but “ Good morning, gracious sir!" was never answered, 
save by a scornful, contemptuous glance; and once, when 
Pinkus had even had the assurance to waylay the old gen- 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


71 


tleman and offer him a pinch of snuff, Mr. Heberline had 
said, shortly: “ Neighbor, if you ever stop my way again, 
or dare to address me, I will wring your neck for half an 
hour; now act accordingly.” 

But Pinkus could not rest; to what purpose was he 
president if he could not keep his congregation informed 
of current news, or bring the only Gentile who dwelt 
among them to listen to reason. 

Therefore, Pinkus, while he sedulously avoided to 
openly encounter the proprietor of the mysterious store, 
secretly watched and spied on him night and day, but 
without result. He saw what the others saw—no more. 

Now there was a cellar beneath Pinkus’ shop, and, ac¬ 
cording to his calculation, there must likewise be one in 
the adjoining house. All of a sudden the way he ought 
to take became very clear to the good, inquisitive man. 
Without delay, Pinkus procured a candle, and repaired to 
the cellar, which, however, was so full of old rubbish that 
it took him half a day to clear the way to the partition 
Wall between his and his neighbor’s cellar. He knocked 
along the wall with a small hammer, in order to discover 
if any of the huge stones were loose and might be dis¬ 
placed. Thus he had arrived at the extreme end of the 
vault, and, vexed at his ill success, he raised his hammer 
and brought it down with all his might on what he took to 
be a huge square stone, but—oh horror!—there was a 
sound far louder than the beat of a hammer on an anvil; 
a sound as of iron on iron. Simultaneously the wall 
turned inward, a bright ray of light darted forth from the 
adjacent cellar, Pinkus fell on his knees, but in the next 
moment felt himself hurled far back into the cellar, 
where he fell over barrels and chests; and remained lying 
motionless, paralyzed with fear. When he ventured to 
look up, his dreaded neighbor stood over him and utter¬ 
ing the words: “Just wait, you rascal. I’ll give you a 
lesson for stealing Christian children.” He began to beat 
him so unmercifully, that poor Pinkus thought he would 
never survive, His dreadful cries of anguish were not 


72 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


heard in the upper world, and his neighbor continued to 
inflict a hearty chastisement, until he observed that 
Pinkus was about to swoon, when he vanished through 
the door where he had so suddenly made his appearance. 

Now, Mr. Pinkus had neither wife nor child, but kept 
bachelor's hall in the small apartment back of his shop. 
Thither he now painfully made his way, and threw him¬ 
self on his bed, where he writhed about in indescribable 
agony. 

But poor Pinkus' sufferings were not at an end, they 
had but just begun. 

When it had grown dusk, Pinkus heard a terrible 
knocking at his door, and the cry: “Open, open, in the 
name of the law!" 

Trembling in every limb, the suffering man arose from 
his couch, dragged himself to the door, and pushed back 
the bolt. He fairly bounded back, for before him stood 
a finely dressed gentleman, followed by a servant bearing 
a torch, and four men who looked startlingly like police- 
officers. 

The gentleman drew Pinkus into the shop, the others 
followed one by one, the last closing and bolting the 
door. 

“ For God’s sake, my gracious sirs," groaned Pinkus, 
“ what do you want of me—what have I done to bring 
the police to my house?" 

“ To begin with, my good friend, I do not want to be 
taken for a policeman. I am a nobleman; look at me 
and say whether I resemble a myrmidon of the police?" 

Pinkus ventured to look up, and the face of the noble¬ 
man did not by any means inspire him with confidence. It 
was the face of a man in his prime, but who was so dread¬ 
fully thin as to look like a living skeleton. His nose, 
bent like a hawk’s bill, almost touched his upper lip. 
His gray, pointed whiskers reached down to his breast; 
but his eyes, of gray color, were the most awful Pinkus 
had ever beheld^ and, their glances wade him shudder all 
over, 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


73 


“ But if the gracious gentleman is no policeman, why 
does he come in the name of the law, and what does he 
want of me?” 

“I was notified that you generally slay Christian 
children and make use of their blood at your sacrifices.” 

Pinkus was obliged to lean against a chest in order not 
to fall. This was always the pretext for instituting anew 
persecutions of the Jews, the excuse for robbing and 
cruelly murdering them during all the middle ages. 

“ God have mercy on us,” muttered Pinkus; “ happy 
the man who is not president of a congregation now.” 

But the measure of his terror was not yet full. 

“ You are president of the congregation ?” continued 
the nobleman, in an inquiring tone. 

“Alas, yes,” returned Pinkus. 

“ Know then, that I have been informed that you have 
a little Christian boy concealed in your cellar.” 

“ Oh, what a lie, what an infamous falsehood,” cried 
Pinkus, raising his eyes to the ceiling. 

“I myself did not believe it; hut to convince the people 
how groundless their accusations are, I must institute a 
strict search here.” 

“Be it so, in the name of God,”replied Pinkus, greatly 
relieved. “ I know that the noble gentleman does not 
for a moment believe what the silly people say, for the 
gentleman is a nobleman, and a nobleman has had some 
education. I know, gracious sir,” continued Pinkus in a 
pleading tone, “that when you have convinced yourself of 
my innocence, you will let me and my congregation go 
forth pure and unsullied from this trial.” 

“As unsullied and white as a swan, Pinkus,” returned 
the nobleman, with a scornful smile which boded no good 
for the poor man. “ But now, Pinkus, light us down to 
your cellar so that I may convince the people of the 
groundlessness of their talk,” said the nobleman moving 
toward the back room. 

Pinkus hastened to raise the trap-door, and descended 
the steep stairs in advance of the others. 



74 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


“ Christian,” said the nobleman to a man standing near 
him, “ search the cellar well, yon have been brought up 
among the lower classes, and you shall convince your own 
self that your talk is nothing but malice.” 

At this moment a cry was heard which froze every 
drop of blood in the veins of poor Pinkus, and caused 
all present, the nobleman at their head, to hasten to the 
extreme corner of the cellar. The cry was that of a lit¬ 
tle child. Pinkus lost all control over himself, and shak¬ 
ing in every limb, he sank on his knees and tore his hair in 
hunches from his head. 

Soon the nobleman and his followers returned, the 
former bearing a little child in his arms. 

It was a wondrously beautiful, golden-haired little boy 
of about a year old. When he caught sight of all the 
strange faces he broke into lamentable crying. The poor 
child was clothed with but one little garment. 

“ You rogue of a Jew,” roared the nobleman, “do you 
see now that the voice of the people is the voice of God ?” 

“Hear, 0 Israel!” cried Pinkus, his teeth chattering! 
“ I am lost, all Israel is lost! God Almighty take pity on 
us in this hour of peril!” 

“Yes, the mercy of God will be very needful, very 
needful indeed, if one Jew of all in the city is to remain 
alive this time. Your fate is sealed.” 

“ Mercy, gracious sir; mercy for God’s sake! I am in¬ 
nocent, the whole congregation is innocent; the child has 
been placed here to effect my ruin,” cried Pinkus, essaying 
to embrace the nobleman’s knees. 

“ Has your cellar any entrance besides the one through 
which we descended?” asked the nobleman, in a some¬ 
what softer tone, while he handed the shrieking child to 
Christian, and signed to him to carry it up-stairs. 

“Yes, gracious sir, yes,” cried Pinkus, to whom these 
words had given new life, as he now saw a prospect of 
escape, “ there, my dear sirs, there in the corner is an 
iron door, which leads into the cellar, and through that 
door the child was brought here.” 


[ THE WIDOW'S SON. 75 

“ Show it to us, Pinkus, show ns but a grain of sand 
which may lighten the load of suspicion resting on you, 
and it would be welcome to us.” 

Pinkus arose quickly; although his face still bore an 
expression of deep despair, the prospect of possible escape 
rendered his gait firm. The nobleman and his followers, 
exchanging smiling looks, followed him closely. Pinkus 
held his light aloft and pointed to the spot where Mr. 
Heberline had entered that morning. “ Here, gracious 
sirs, here,” he cried, triumphantly. 

“ Where, where?” cried all. 

“ Here, don't you see?” and Pinkus knocked once on 
what he had taken to be an iron door; then the hair on 
his head bristled with horror, his uplifted arm grew rigid! 
What he had seen was supernatural—a miracle that God 
had, worked to destroy him and all the Jews. 

• 


CHAPTER X. 

A CAPITAL JOKE. 

The iron door, of whose existence he had that morning 
been so profoundly and feelingly convinced, was not to be 
discovered, only the cold, gray wall stared blankly at him, 
Pinkus sat down, rolled his face in the dust, and cried: 
" Oh, God, dost Thou still work miracles for the destruc¬ 
tion of Thy people?” 

“ Where is your iron door, you Jewish rascal?” roared 
the nobleman, smiting the solid wall with his sword. “ Is 
it not enough that you slay Christian children? must you 
deceive us so basely? Away with him!” cried the noble¬ 
man to his band, “ away with him, hang him to his own 
door-post, and then report to your friends; by to-morrow 
the whole Ghetto must be razed to the ground, and ere 
the duke awakes the Jews must be exterminated and 

[ annihilated.” 

Who can imagine the mortal fear of poor Pinkus when 
the myrmidons seized him? Who can describe his 
prayers, his lamentations^ his promises, his asseverations 





76 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


of his innocence, and that of all the Jews? It was truly 
heart-breaking. The unfortunate man clung to every 
barrel, every chest, even to the jagged stones which 
formed the wall, until his fingers were bruised and bleed¬ 
ing, while he was dragged to the cellar stairs, nearer and 
nearer to his dreadful doom. 

When Pinkus had been brought to the foot of the 
stairs, he was suddenly released, and his captors vanished 
one by one through the trap-door into the shop above, the 
nobleman alone remaining below with the half-dead 
prisoner. 

It was an awful scene. 

The torch which Christian had left behind him dif¬ 
fused a ghastly light in the low vault, and the long, 
attenuated figure, bending over the writhing sufferer, 
bore a striking resemblance to the devil our fancy paints. 
It was a meet subject for a picture. 

“ Jew,” cried the nobleman, “ arise! perhaps it is not 
yet too late to save your accursed life!” 

These words sounded like joyful paeans to the ears of 
the sufferer. He partly raised himself, and his fixed eyes 
regained some of their wonted expression. 

“I will grant you your life,” said the nobleman, “and 
the lives of those of your faith, but only on conditions.” 

“ I agree to any conditions in advance, gracious sir,” 
sobbed Pinkus. 

“ Very well; the Jews of this city must pay an indem¬ 
nification of ten thousand florins by to-morrow, and you 
are to deliver the money to your neighbor, Heberline, the 
furbish er.” 

“Oh, oh! your lordship, do it a little cheaper,”sobbed 
Pinkus, “a little cheaper.” Instead of an answer, the 
nobleman whistled, and immediately a great tramping of 
feet was heard from above. “ Granted, gracious sir, 
granted!” howled Pinkus, excitedly. 

“Very well; the next condition is that neither you 
nor the other Jews of the Ghetto are to concern your¬ 
selves about the armorer's business, nor try to discover it; 


77 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 

quite on the contrary, you must assist him as much as lies 
in your power, for his misfortune will bring about that of 
the whole congregation. On the day when the armorer 
disappears from your street, or falls into the hands of 
justice, on that day your crime in regard to the Christian 
child will be made known, and I need not tell you what 
the consequences may be.” 

“ Agreed, gracious sir. Mr. Heberline may do what he 
pleases; we will not concern ourselves about him, and we 
will protect him as we would one of ourselves.” 

“ Very well; but now I demand a security, so that at 
some future time you will not be able to deny what we 
have seen to-day.” 

“More money,” groaned Pinkus, “more money! we 
can procure no more.” 

“No, no; be at ease; no more money. I shall leave 
the little boy to your care; you must adopt him, and rear 
him in your faith.” 

When poor Pinkus had reluctantly assented to this 
also, he was dragged up-stairs and thrown on his bed; his 
persecutors helped themselves to what pleased their fancy, 
then left the house, and Pinkus heard them enter that of 
his neighbor, and indulge in hearty fits of laughter. 

The first rays of the morning sun were just faintly 
lighting up the room of Pinkus, when he heard a small 
voice beside him cry, first “papa,” then, “mamma!” 

It proceeded from the child that had been left to his 
care. Pinkus jumped from his couch as if bitten by a taran¬ 
tula. An indescribable rage took possession of him. He 
raised his clinched hand, but the little unsuspecting 
creature smiled sweetly, lovingly stretched out its arms, 
and repeatedly cried: “Papa, papa!” 

Pikus allowed his uplifted arm to droop, and mur¬ 
mured: “ Gam zu Vtobali ” (this is also for the best). 
The compassion which dwells in every Jewish heart filled 
that of the sorely-tried man. He raised the crowing, 
merry little fellow, went to the cupboard, poured some 
milk into a saucer, and gave it to the child. Then ho 




78 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


put a piece of cake into its little hand, replaced it on the 
bed, and—honor to the compassionate heart of the Jew— 
kissed its cherry lips, and muttered: “ Poor little thing; 
you are innocent, you are not to blame for this great 
gezerali” (misfortune). 

Suddenly Pinkus remembered the engagement he had 
entered into with the nobleman, and that he was in need 
of the speedy help of the whole congregation to enable 
him to fulfill it. He accordingly hastened to the syna¬ 
gogue, where his late appearance created no little sensa¬ 
tion, which was augmented by the expression of his 
countenance; for the sufferings he had undergone since 
the day before had not failed to leave their mark. 

It was still quite early, and when the services were 
ended, Pinkus arose and related to the terrified assembly 
his adventure—how nearly destruction had overtaken 
them. 

But he wisely kept to himself that the principal cause 
of this calamity was his own pernicious curiosity. 

The sum which Pinkus demanded was an immense one 
to the inhabitants of the Ghetto, none of whom were 
greatly encumbered with worldly goods. The men wrung 
their hands in mute despair; but it concerned the lives 
of their wives and children, the most valuable treasure 
they possessed, and they were obliged to determine upon 
some mode of action. Various proposals were made, 
among others that a deputation should be sent io the 
duke to lay the whole matter before him. But this was 
overruled by Pinkus, who very justly remarked that, as a 
nobleman had been mixed up in the affair, the duke had 
probably already been informed of it, and in a manner 
unfavorable to the Jews; the money was no doubt destined 
for his own private purse. 

The Jews only too well knew, that when any of their 
reigning sovereigns was in need of money, he procured it 
in a justifiable or unjustifiable manner from the defense¬ 
less sons of Israel. Of course, if the Jews of the Ghetto 
had known that the nobleman, who plunged them into 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 79 

this dilemma, was no other than Kuno of Witzleb, and if 
they had suspected in what relation he stood to the duke, 
their sufferings would have been at an end; but they did 
not know anything of this, and were accustomed to simi¬ 
lar treatment in extortions in those days from the no¬ 
bility. 

The members of the congregation contributed all the 
money they could spare; they counted and calculated, but 
could not succeed in collecting more than half the re¬ 
quired sum. 

Now the rabbi of the congregation, a venerable man 
with a long waving white beard, arose and thus addressed 
the members: 

“ All Israel are brethren, my friends; never forget this, 
be it in suffering or joy. Never has it happened in Israel 
that a helping hand was not extended to a brother in dis¬ 
tress or misfortune. My proposal is the following: Send 
me and one other member of the congregation to our 
brethren in the country. We will report our grievous 
situation, and will surely succeed in procuring succor and 
aid. We will bring back enough to satisfy our enemy, 
and he will not further persecute us. It is true that I am 
old and weary of foot, but God will strengthen me, for I 
go forth in His name and for the weal of my people. 
This evening our president, Mr. Pinkus, shall take the 
money, which will have been collected by that time, to 
the foe of Israel, and as security for the rest of the 
amount our wives and daughters will carry their jewels 
and dishes of silver and gold to Pinkus, who will deliver 
them to our enemy, that he may be satisfied; and this he 
will be all the more when Pinkus gives him our assurance 
that we will try to please the armorer in every way, and 
bring up the little child among us, as a pledge of our faith 
and constant reminder of our compact, a compact which 
Ilaman could have devised none better.” 

All had attentively hearkened to the venerable rabbi's 
words, and they found an echo in every heart. 

One of the rabbi’s pupils, a sturdy young man, volun- 





80 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


teered to accompany him, and they departed amidst the 
blessings and good wishes of the congregation. Without 
anticipating our story, we may here remark that the two 
delegates returned in three weeks, bringing with them the 
immense sum of five thousand florins, a proof of how 
open they had found the hearts and hands of their brethren 
in faith in the country. 

At that time the press, that winged messenger of civil¬ 
ization, had very little influence; no Jewish newspaper 
published the events that occurred in Jewish communi¬ 
ties, and the latter kept strictly secret any wrongs in¬ 
flicted on them by the Gentiles, for well they knew that 
rapacity was easily excited, and only awaited a pretext to 
seize its prey. Hence it was that the baron's disgraceful 
act did not become known in any of the other Jewish 
communities. 

But to take up the thread of our story. On the even¬ 
ing of that eventful day Pinkus entered the armorer's 
store. Old Mr. Heberline came out of his little back 
room and inquired what his neighbor wanted. Pinkus 
stated why he had come, and the armorer returned quite 
indifferently that the baron had commissioned him to 
receive the money; he also agreed to take the jewels as 
security until the return of the two delegates. This was 
an immense relief to poor Pinkus, who had feared that 
the armorer would not accept the jewels, although their 
value far exceeded that of the remaining sum, as not one 
woman or maiden had hesitated to bring every ornament 
she possessed. 

Despite the severe lesson he had received, Pinkus had 
not unlearned his curiosity; he attempted to question Mr. 
Heberline about the nobleman, but the latter grew inso¬ 
lent, and bade him depart. 

Pinkus was about to retreat in affright, when Heber¬ 
line called him back, and asked him: 

“ Well, Mr. Pinkus, what about the little boy—what 
are you resolved upon doing with him?" 

“ I am going to keep him; the congregation has already 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


81 


hired a woman to take care of him, and I should like to 
thank the nobleman for leaving him with me, for he is a 
dear little creature. If I only knew to whom he belonged, 
I should feel satisfied.” 

Heberline seized a pistol and aimed it at Pinkus. The 
latter sank on his knees in terror, and begged for mercy. 

“ Remember, you rascal,” cried Heberline, “ that your 
inquisitiveness and curiosity nearly brought down ruin on 
all the Jews of this city; remember this, and bridle your 
tongue. Now go, else I will give information that you 
wish to bring up a Christian child in your faith.” 

Pinkus departed hastily. Arrived without, he mut¬ 
tered inaudibly: 

“By my soul, that was the voice of the nobleman! I 
should dearly like to know what connection there is be¬ 
tween the two.” 

You see, Pinkus was incorrigible. 

Hardly had Pinkus left the store, when Heberline ran 
with his treasure to the back-room, pulled off his long 
white beard, and, sinking into a chair, laughed loudly 
and heartily. 

This awakened a sleeping man, the same whom the no¬ 
bleman had last night addressed as Christian. The latter 
yawned, stretched himself on the sofa, and looked at the 
laugher with eyes heavy with sleep. 

“ Well, drunken cobbler, what are you staring at?” 

“ Pardon, your lordship, but I cannot imagine what 
cause there is for amusement.” 

“I should like to know any one who would not laugh,” 
returned Kuno, the ex-armorer.. “ Never has master¬ 
stroke of mine been more successful.” 

“Very true, baron, but I cannot comprehend how you 
can act so, as I often heard you express a decided pref¬ 
erence for the Jews.” 

“ It is true that I like the Jews,” returned Kuno, 
“ but I also like their money, and no one can prevent a 
joke well meant. I would have played the same little 
game with Gentiles, but it is difficult to impose on them. 


82 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


However, Christian,” continued the baron, “it is high 
time for you to depart on your journey, and enter into 
the situation I have promised you as a reward for your 
services. Truly, I should like to be as well off as you— 
nothing to do but to eat, drink, and laze. You are a 
lucky fellow!” 

Christian did not answer. He arose, grasped a sturdy 
stick which stood in a corner, slung his knapsack on his 
back and approached the baron, who put a heavy purse in 
his hand. 

“Of ours?” asked Christian, morosely. 

“Ho, sheepshead, it is solid Jewish coin.” 

“All right, baron,” said Christian, putting his purse in 
his pocket; “but what is to become of my house in Im- 
menf eld ?” 

“ I suppose we can sell it to some one in the course of 
time; for the present we will leave it closed up.” ( 

“ Have you no commands for me ?” 

“No; tell the holy fathers that I will visit them in the 
spring, and will probably bring with me a guest and some 
Jewish money of full weight. Now, farewell, Christian.” 

On finding himself alone Kuno again gave way to 
hearty laughter. 

“Delicious, delicious!” cried Kuno, again and again; 
“there is no fear that the holy fathers will let the drunken 
cobbler go; he is safe not to blab anything where it might 
become dangerous. From the Jews I have taken money 
and given them in return a child, who will be brought up 
in their faith as equivalent for the soul I intend to wrest 
from them. Oh, it is too good, by my sword! I grudge 
the enjoyment of it to myself alone!” 

The store-bell rang, and Kuno, resuming his false 
beard, entered the store as armorer Heberline. 


CHAPTER XI. 

A FRIEKD IK KEED. 

It is time that we return to Immenfeld. 

During the delivery* of the Sidrah , the portion of the 



THE WIDOW'S SON. 


83 


Sabbath lesson, many whispered remarks were inter¬ 
changed concerning the mysterious disappearance of the 
widow’s son. It may be imagined that these were not 
always favorable to the poor boy. When the services 
were ended, members congregated in little groups, some 
standing before the synagogue, and others slowly strolling 
on their homeward way. The majority maintained that as 
Joseph was already so much of an apostate, he bad shrunk 
from facing the Thorah, looking into God’s countenance, 
as it were, and had secretly run away; a very small minority 
ventured to express the opinion that something might 
have happened to the boy. 

The first group, talking energetically and walking 
slowly along, stopped short before the Spaniard’s house; 
the other groups coming up, gradually increased the circle 
of excited talkers, and so it came about that the whole 
congregation was soon, almost unintentionally, assembled 
before Benrimo’s house. 

Suddenly a prying boy stooped and picked up an old 
cap which lay on th© step at Benrimo’s door. 

“ Look here,” cried the boy, “as sure as I live and 
breathe, this is Joseph Bonafit’s old cap.” 

All looked at the cap in breathless suspense, and many 
identified it as Joseph’s property; and now the crowd 
seemed to comprehend where they were; instinctively they 
retreated into the middle of the street; all glances were 
directed to Benrimo’s windows, which, strange to say, 
and in direct contrast to their wonted manner, were 
closely curtained. 

Benrimo himself, however, was wholly ignorant of what 
was happening before his door. His pupil had left him 
at a very late hour, and he slept so far into the morning 
that he missed the Shacharith (morning) prayer. 

The curtained windows had contributed no small share 
to Benrimo’s long sleep. These very curtains, however, 
which now excited so much astonishment, were by no 
means an innovation; they had never been remarked be¬ 
cause the members of the Immenfeld congregation dicl 


84 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 

not dare to look up at the excommunicated Spaniard s 
windows. Their origin may he explained easily enough. 
Joseph Bonafit had observed, or thought he had observed, 
that some one passed the windows every night while he 
was at his lessons, and once he even believed to have seen 
Cobbler Christian's face pressed f oi a second's time against 
the window-pane. Partly to quiet the boy's fears, and part¬ 
ly to keep his attention from wandering from his studies, 
Benrimo had put up curtains which he drew close every 
time Joseph came. 

It was about noon when Benrimo arose from his couch, 
greatly wondering that he had so overslept himself. As 
he did not cook on the Sabbath, he partook of a cold 
breakfast, and then sat down over his books, in whose con¬ 
tents he soon became so absorbed that he did not notice the 
unusual number of shadows which crossed his window on 
that day. 

In the meanwhile the crowd before the door had been 
admonished by the rabbi not to break the peace of the 
Sabbath by any unusual demonstrations, but to disperse 
quietly to their homes, and reassemble at his house in 
the evening, in order to consult about what steps they 
ought to take in the matter. 

When evening arrived all the ba’ale battim (members 
of the congregation) hastened to the place of meeting, 
and as every one had something to say, and all said it at 
the same time, a regular hubbub and babel ensued. 

Finally all the screaming and gesticulating resulted in 
the following resolution: A deputation, consisting of the 
president and two of the most influential members of the 
congregation, was to go to the Spaniard's dwelling to in¬ 
vestigate Joseph's absence and whereabouts; also to make 
the necessary inquiries. 

They received accurate instructions how to act, and the 
meeting resolved to remain in session until the return of 
the deputation, in order to await the latter's report. 

But hardly had the committee of three departed 
when the members on some pretext or other successively 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


85 


left the room. At first single members slipped out* then 
they went by twos and threes; finally none wished to be 
left behind, and when the deputation arrived at Ben- 
rimo's house (it must be confessed that their hearts beat 
quite violently) they saw the whole congregation trail 
like the tail of a comet after them. 

This was far from being disagreeable to the deputation. 
A singular feeling of awe overcame them on crossing the 
threshold of a man whom they had persecuted for ten 
long years, and to whom they were even now coming 
with a purpose far from friendly. 

The president had foreseen this feeling, and had there¬ 
fore spoken at length in the meeting, that the Spaniard 
should be summoned to appear before them. How¬ 
ever, it was very justly maintained that the Spaniard 
would not come, and then the matter was very urgent, for 
the Widow Bonafit lay on the point of death. Well, when 
the president stopped at Benrimo’s door, he hemmed, 
hawed and scraped his feet on the sill, in all which 
actions he was faithfully supported by his companions, 
and then knocked pretty firmly on the door. Immedi¬ 
ately a stamping and pounding was heard, and the hearts 
of the valiant three fell some inches, for they recognized 
the beats of Spaniard^ crutches which were approaching 
the door from within. 

The deputation expected that they would be questioned 
from within, and this would have just pleased the president, 
as it would have given him an opportunity to unfold his 
diplomatic talents; but nothing of the kind occurred; a 
bolt was drawn back and the next moment the three were 
face to face with the outlaw, the anathematized. 

The latter did not immediately recognize his visitors, for 
the hall was in partial darkness; despite this he gave them 
a somewhat surprised “ Good-evening,” and invited them 
to enter the room. In his desire to know who these late 
disturbers of his solitude might be, he forgot to close the 
the house door. When Benrimo hobbled into the room 
he almost dropped his crutches, so utterly astonished was 


86 


TEE WIDOW'S SON. 


lie at the sight of the president and two of the most 
esteemed members of the congregation. The latter did 
not fail to note the Spaniard’s surprise and nodded signifi¬ 
cantly to each other. 

Benrimo quickly regained self-possession, and offered 
chairs to his visitors, which were, however, not accepted. 

“ Then permit me to sit down, gentlemen; you have 
each of you two feet, while I must always stand on one.” 

Thus saying, Benrimo seated himself and looked ex¬ 
pectantly at the three men, who were completely at a loss 
how or when to begin. 

“ Well, what have you to say to me?” at last asked Ben¬ 
rimo. 

“ Nothing good,” stammered the president, 

“That I believe, gentlemen; what good can come from 
antagonists?” 

Had not Benrimo already been excommunicated, this 
one expression would certainly have sealed his fate; the 
three men reddened with anger, their eyes glared fiercely 
on Moses, for he had spoken words foreign to them, words 
which were only used by the tormentors when speaking 
of Jews. 

The president advanced close to Benrimo, and in a 
voice quivering with rage, he asked: “ Say, what have 
you done with Joseph Bonafit?” 

“'Ah! so,” said Benrimo, lightly; then he continued, 
scornfully, “ so the wise congregation has at last discov¬ 
ered this!” 

“Of course,” shrieked the president, “and for that 
reason we have come here!” 

“ Well, as you know all, you might have dispensed with 
the journey here. Why do you come to me? Do you, 
perhaps, wish to wrest from me the soul I have stolen 
from you ?” 

“Exactly,” one of the deputation ventured to remark, 
gathering courage from the fact that the hall and room 
were fast filling with men, unobserved by Benrimo, who 





THE WIDOW'S SON. 


8? 


sat with his back to the door, “exactly; you have stolen 
his soul, and we demand it back.” 

“ You must ask the boy himself if he wishes to give 
it back.” 

“Hear the renegade! hear the kidnapper!” cried the 
president, who was well aware that help was at hand; 
“he derides us!” 

Hardly had these words escaped the president, when 
Benrimo stood on his one foot, and threateningly bran¬ 
dished aloft his crutch. “You are in my house, miserable 
slanderers,” he cried, in a voice like thunder; “even 
though I am a cripple, I can defend my honor against the 
whole good-for-nothing crew.” 

The three men retreated with very pale faces; but now 
another man, a cattle dealer, who was noted and dreaded 
in the village for his roughness, and who had slipped into 
the room among the rest, stepped up to the aged man 
and said: 

“Just put down your crutch; you are a renegade. 
Joseph is nowhere to be discovered; he disappeared last 
night, and his cap was found on your doorstep; now, who 
has done away with him? You, and no one else!” 

Benrimo dropped his crutch, and sank down in a chair* 
Great drops of perspiration oozed out on his forehead. 

“Wha—what do you say? Joseph Bonafit has disap¬ 
peared? That is impossible; it cannot be; he asked me 
to come to his bar-mitzvah. I promised to do so, and 
forgot.” 

“Do you hear it? Do you hear it?” cried numerous 
voices, and Benrimo was surrounded by red and angry 
faces. “Do you hear it? He was here last night! The 
Spaniard’s fear and surprise, when he heard that we knew 
of his crime, have betrayed him!” howled the cattle-driver. 

“Gentlemen!” began Benrimo, and his voice trembled, 
while he painfully supported himself on his crutches, 

“believe me, this dreadful news has moved me more-” 

A burst of contemptuous laughter overpowered his voice. 
Benrimo wiped the perspiration from his forehead with 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


88 

the back of his hand. His words were not credited; he 
became anxious for his safety. Carefully giving way 
before the crowd pressing in on him, he maneuvered so 
well as to reach the wall, thus gaining a shield for his 
back. Beside him hung an unsheathed cavalry sword. 

“ Rabbothai!” (gentlemen) now began the president, 
“here, before you stands a blasphemer, an apostate in 
Israel; he has purloined a boy, the only son of his mother, 
and she a widow; what shall we do with him?” 

“Flog him,” howled the cattle-dealer, and some of the 
younger men joined in the cry. 

“ God shall not punish us so severely,” said the presi¬ 
dent, “we will not lay violent hands on one of our 
people!” 

“But he is no Jew, he is an apostate and is anathe¬ 
matized,” cried the cattle-dealer; the foam standing on his 
lips. “He is excommunicated, he does not belong to 
us.” And ere the others could prevent him he rushed 
forward with uplifted arm; Benrimo tore the sword from 
the wall with the rapidity of lightning, and, anticipating 
his opponent, inflicted such a blow on the latter’s arm, 
that he sank to the ground howling with agony. This 
was a signal for a general attack; Benrimo whirled his 
sword like a wheel about his head, and thus kept his 
assailants at bay; the latter finally took up the large folios 
which lay about the room and began to throw them at 
Moses; one hit him so violently on the breast that he 
tottered, and the next moment would have decided his 
fate, had not all remained standing as if magically rooted 
to the ground. A fanfare—the shrill blast of a horn re¬ 
sounded from the upper end of the street; there was a 
trampling of horses, which ceased before Benrimo’s house; 
the crowd in the hall was pushed to one side, and in the 
doorway appeared the tall, commanding figure of a 
gentleman, wearing a gold-laced coat, on the breast of 
which a diamond star blazed and sparkled. 

All in the room drew back, and Benrimo cried ecstat¬ 
ically: 


THE WIDOW'S SON . 


89 


“Praise be to God! Your highness does not come a 
moment too soon!” 

When the men in the room heard this title, they sneaked 
oil and attempted to hide behind the gentlemen who had 
followed close upon the first-comer. 

“Moses, what is going on here?” asked the duke, for 
it was no less a person. 

Benrimo dropped his sword in. affright, for it suddenly 
became clear to him what a situation he was in. 

“Your highness,”said the old man,in embarrassment, 
looking at the Jews behind the officers—“your highness 
must excuse us, we were fencing for amusement.” 

“ But Moses,” returned the duke, incredulously, “you 
just said that I did not come a moment too soon.” 

“Did I say that? Then your highness must ascribe it 
to my wish of having such a connoisseur of fencing as 
witness to our performance. But will not your highness 
be seated?” 

“No, thanks; but what,” continued the duke, with 
unusual obstinacy, “ what do all these people here and in 
the street want of you?” 

“Those—ah ” cried Benrimo, confusedly scratch¬ 
ing his head, “oh—they came to offer their congratula¬ 
tions, as the day is my birthday.” 

“Moses, Moses, you must have grown imbecile! Do 
people come in the evening to offer birthday wishes? 
Or think you that I have such a bad memory for my 
friends, that I do not remember your birthday, like mine, 
is in autumn, and not in spring.” 

“I humbly implore your highness to let this matter 
rest; kindly believe what I have spoken to be true, and 
allow me again to express my joy at seeing you, and to 
ask to what happy chance I owe the honor of your visit.” 

“I am on a visit to my castle on the Rhine; last night 
the conversation turned on you, my Moses, and these 
gentlemen ”—the duke indicated his companions—“ ex¬ 
pressed a desire to make your acquaintance, So we made 
a little trip to Immenfeld,” 


90 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


Moses did not answer immediately; after a pause, he 
said in an embarrassed way: 

“Will it please your highness to take your humble 
servant with you?” 

What, Moses! What say you?” cried the duke, greatly 
rejoiced; “you want to go with me, old friend? You 
want to go away from here, despite that the whole Jewish 
population of the place congratulated you as early as to¬ 
day for your birthday in the autumn, an honor which 
was never done me?” A smile accompanied the duke's 
last words. 

“ Yes, your highness,” said Moses, with an answering 
smile at the duke's remark, “yes, I wish to leave this 
place, although I have enjoyed a great many benefits 
here. There is such a thing as wearying, even at good 
things.” 

Count Hugo, and you, baron,” said the duke, turning 
to two of his companions who stood nearest him, “ es¬ 
cort Benrimo to my carriage, for he is not very fleet of 
foot.” 

The two gentlemen smilingly hastened to perform the 
duke's behest, and the Jews of Immenfeld enjoyed the 
rare spectacle of seeing the man whom they had not only 
anathematized, but even accused of kidnapping, lifted 
into the carriage by a count and a baron. 

But the Jews of Immenfeld did not know what they 
had lost in the “Spaniard” until a few days after Ben- 
rimo's departure, when a courier arrived at the presi¬ 
dent's house with a message from the duke. As the 
message was written in German, the courier read it 
aloud. It was as follows: 

“To My Jewish Subjects ih Immehfeld, —You are 
a band of outlaws and rowdies. I would have had a 
tower built for each of you, had my Moses demanded it. 
You treated him shamefully, and yet you now owe it to 
his intercession that I do not have every one of you 
whipped out of the country, As punishment, I make 


91 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 

over to you the chagrin you must feel, at not having 
known what golden eggs the goose could lay whom you 
were about to slay, when fortunately arrived 
“ Your duke, 

“Francis XII. of Wimmerstein.” 


CHAPTEK XIT. 

A CONVENT. 

The convent of “ St. Francis ” was situated in a dreary 
ravine among the mountains. The monks of this con¬ 
vent belonged to the order of Franciscan Friars, a clerical 
order, which not only required its members to take a vow 
of poverty, but so stretched this vow to its utmost limits 
that their pertinacious begging rendered the region about 
them as barren as locusts are wont to make a blossoming 
tract of land. But these Franciscan Friars were a worse 
plague than the locusts, for the latter at some time or 
other forsook the region they had invaded, while the 
monks never did so; neither storm nor rain could drive 
them from where they had established themselves, and 
they understood how to make everyone around them sub¬ 
servient to their purposes. To render their poverty very 
apparent, they went barefoot summer and winter. Their 
one garment consisted of a long brown habit, the hood of 
which was drawn closely around their eyes; the only or¬ 
nament was a rude rope tied about their waists, a cross 
and rosary dangling from the ends. Dirt constituted 
not a small part of their equipment. When the monks of 
the Convent of St. Francis were out on a begging tour, 
they would receive a dry crust of bread with many thanks 
and blessings, and would consume it with the greatest 
apparent satisfaction, while behind the walls of their con¬ 
vent they feasted on dainties Lucullus would not have 
disdained. Although the monks of the Convent of St. 
Francis still continued to beg, it was said of them that 
their convent was the richest in the country, and the 
peasants round about fiercely hated the hypocritical para- 






THE WIDOW’S SON. 


sites. But no; there was one monk whom they did not 
hate. This exception was Father Anselmo. Very much 
in contrast to the other monks. Father Anselmo was 
not at all corpulent. Sobriety and intelligence had es¬ 
tablished their thrones on his forehead. Wherever the 
long, thin figure of Father Anselmo was seen, people 
hastened to greet him and implore his blessing. 

All the harm inflicted on the surrounding country by 
the monks was overbalanced by Father Anselmo, for he 
was truly a man of God, a worker of miracles. Had An¬ 
selmo remained in the world, instead of secluding him¬ 
self within the walls of a convent, he would have been the 
most celebrated physician of his time. Very often was 
Father Anselmo summoned to castles and palaces when 
the most skillful physicians had given up their distin¬ 
guished patients' lives; and Father Anselmo gave relief 
after all had despaired of help. 

For the convent, also, Anselmo was an invaluable ac- 
quisiton and treasure. The presents he received—often 
immense sums of money—all reverted to the convent, and 
greatly enriched it. 

Anselmo practiced his glorious art not only for the re¬ 
lief of the rich but for the aid of the poorest peasant; 
and it gave him greater pleasure to preserve a poor la¬ 
borer to his numerous family than to restore a tyrant, who 
had been at the brink of the grave, to his oppressed sub¬ 
jects. 

But Anselmo had one weakness. He would impart his 
rich stores of knowledge to no person. 

The superior of the convent had repeatedly importuned 
Anselmo to take an assistant, so that when he died the 
convent would not lose its fame; but Father Anselmo re¬ 
jected every proposal and every offer, with the remark that 
he had found neither within nor without the walls of the 
convent any one who was worthy to inherit the crumbs of 
wisdom he had so painfully picked up and become his 
scholar. The superior was forced to content himself with 
this, but he already shuddered at the thought of the 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 


93 


learned Anselmo’s death, for then the great source of 
revenue to the convent would cease to flow. 

The porter’s hell of the convent sounded. It was 
already quite dusk, and the porter, a lay brother, greatly 
wondering who it might he that demanded admittance to 
the convent so late in the day, hastened to the door and 
slipped hack the heavy bolts which barred it. 

“Blessed be the Father, theS- The devil! Baron 

Witzleb!” cried the porter, surprised at sight of the noble¬ 
man. “ What brings you here?” 

“ Good-evening, Christian,” returned Kuno of Witzleb. 
“Well, won’t you let me in? Your position here as 
porter seems to agree with you well; the brown habit be¬ 
comes you charmingly; but your nose has grown a little 
ruddier, and you are more dirty than usual. Well, how 
fares it altogether?” 

While uttering these words Kuno entered the reception- 
room. Christian answered the last question: 

“Not very well, gracious sir; those cursed priests have 
not made me butler as yet.” 

“That is a proof of their penetration Christian, for 
that would be setting the cat to mind the cream.” 

“ Oh, I wish the devil would take them all.” 

“ Christian, Christian,” cried Kuno, laughing, “ it 
seems that neither this sacred spot nor the holy fathers 
have cured you of your habit of swearing and wicked¬ 
ness. ” 

“Those,” cried Christian, contemptuously; “they 
curse like troopers. Listen, gracious sir,” and Christian 
approached his mouth to the baron’s ear; “ you must see 
and hear these priests within their own convent walls; 
truly our band in the city is an assemblage of saints in 
. comparison.” 

Kuno smiled knowingly, then said: 

“Christian, go and announce my arrival to the su¬ 
perior.” 

“ I don’t think I can venture to do so; the worthy 
superior is just at supper.” 




94 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


“ Sheepshead, for that very reason you must announce 
me.” 

Christian glided through several corridors, entered the 
room of Father Ignatius, the superior, and greeted him: 

“Blessed he Jesus Christ.” 

“ Confounded fool!” roared the worthy superior, his 
mouth full of chicken, “ why do you disturb me?” 

“I beg the worthy prior’s pardon,” returned Christian, 
derisively, “ I forgot that we are in Lent, and that you 
were just partaking of lenten food.” The fat prior’s face 
grew purple with rage, hut Christian knew what oil to 
pour on the troubled waters. He did not wait for the 
prior to regain his breath, but quickly said: “Kuno of 
Witzleb has come with the Jewish money he promised to 
yQur reverence.” 

The prior’s face lighted up with pleasure; his anger was 
forgotten. 

“Quick, you fool, clear off the table; bring in boiled 
fish and oatmeal porridge, and then invite the baron to 
come hither.” 

Christian took up the dishes, and had already reached 
the door, when Father Ignatius called after him: “J 
give you a dispensation for to-day; you may eat all thq 
chicken I have left.” 

When the lenten dishes were placed on the table, Kune 
was conducted to the room. He bowed and allowed 
Father Ignatius to bless him. When the holy father as. 
signed him a place at the table, the baron candidly said; 
“Excuse me, reverend father, but I feel no desire fo( 
such food.” 

“My son, my son,” said the prior in an admonitorj 
tone, “ remember we are in Lent. I hope that you do 
not transgress Christ’s commandment, and prefer meal 
to these frugal dishes.” 

“Reverend father, what do you think,” cried Kuno, 
indignantly, “does your reverence take me to be such a 
bad Christian?” 

“Ho, no; God forbid my son; but it is duty for us to 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


95 


guide Christians to the right path. But what news do 
you bring?” 

“ Reverend father, I come to fulfill a vow I have made 
to the convent. I wish to donate three thousand florins 
to it, if such a gift seems not too small to your rever¬ 
ence.” 

The prior's little eyes, which were almost smothered in 
fat, glittered as he replied: “ My son, it does not beseem 
us to reject alms offered by a pious Christian. I accept 
the generous offer.” 

“ Apply it to the diffusion of Christianity, reverend 
father; for this purpose I took it away from the Jews in the 
city. As they are too obstinate to allow themselves to be 
baptized, they must at least give their money so that 
others may be baptized.” 

The prior placed his hands over his well-fed stomach, 
twirled his thumbs, and looked upward as if transfigured. 

Along pause ensued; then the baron began: “ Your 
reverence has probably already heard what a misfortune 
has befallen my family, the only child of Count Weiden 
has been stolen by gypsies.” 

“I think, my son, that you told me this some time 
ago.” 

“ Yes, your reverence, but you are always so taken up 
by holy and sacred matters, that I thought you had for¬ 
gotten this worldly affair.” 

“That would have been the case, my son, if the child 
had fallen into the hands of God, or of good Christians; 
but into the hands of heathens, idolatrous gypsies, 0 
Jesus! 0 holy Jesus!” 

“Yes, yes, your reverence; that is just what hurt me 
most,” said Kuno, drying his eyes; “your reverence 
knows this. But the Lord has enlightened me, he has 
instructed me in a dream to procure another soul for the 
one that is lost, and to bring it to you, reverend father, 
for further guidance to the feet of the lamb, our sweet 
Lord Jesus,-’ 





THE WIDOW'S SON. 


“You are a truly devout Christian, my son, and the 
.blessing of God will rest upon you.” 

“Amen, reverend father, amen! I have performed my 
part of the task, and come to place the accomplishment 
of it into your anointed hands.” 

“You did well, my son, very well; where is the child 
who is to wear the crown of Christianity instead of the 
one who is stolen?” 

“ In the carriage, your reverence, which I left at the 
entrance of the ravine. After I have received your per¬ 
mission, I will bring the boy here, with the help of two 
brothers,” returned Kuno, completely changing his tone, 
as the comedy which he and the prior were acting began 
to weary him, and the latter signed that there was now no 
fear of eavesdroppers. 

The prior also changed his manner, and arising from 
his chair, he said: 

“ Is the money in your carriage, also, baron?” 

“Yes, Father Ignatius; it is good money, which you 
may without fear send to any mint, or invest in some 
profitable undertaking.” 

“Have you brought some of the other kind?” asked the 
prior. 

“Ho, not to-day; we have discovered a new market for 
it, and I think we had rather cease here awhile, as the 
whole district is flooded with it, and the peasants have 
grown so distrustful that they even examine good money 
with critical eyes, as I had opportunity to observe on 
my journey here.” 

“But you will let us have a percentage of your gain¬ 
ings elsewhere?” asked the prior. 

“Certainly, certainly; consider the three thousand 
florins as part. Another thing; never let Christian sus¬ 
pect that you and I are confederates; and in future, give 
the counterfeit money only to those monks who are loo 
stupid to know the difference, or to such as you can 
safely depend on. But, in particular, do not draw Father 
Anselino into our game; lie looks upon some things far 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 97 

too seriously, and recognizes such a counterfeit coin from 
afar.” 

“Do not trouble yourself, baron; I have always been 
very careful, and intend to remain so. But let us go for 
the Jewish boy.” 

“Ah, yes; it is well that you remind me of him; he is 
a splendid boy, intelligent, wide awake, and will in some 
future time do honor to his bringing up. I intend great 
things from him; no less than-” 

“Than what, baron?” 

“Never mind, your reverence; we will speak about that 
later on. But I will tell you what you are to do with the 
boy. Teach him everything that can be imparted to him 
here. If possible, try to infuse some love of Christianity 
into him; but in any case, make a man of him, with 
whom something can be done.” 

“ To begin with, we will of course give him holy bap¬ 
tism,” said the superior, smilingly. 

“By no means,” cried Kuno, hotly; “for God's sake 
do not force the boy to anything, else all our exertions 
will be in vain. The boy's character is such that, with 
kindness, you may move him to any action; by compul¬ 
sion, however, you will never attain anything. He is 
exceedingly anxious to learn, but should you try to force 
him to study, he will not desire to know anything. When 
he will feel so much love for Christianity as to ask for 
baptism, you may give it him, but no sooner. You are 
well aware what you and I think of religion. 

“With Father Anselmo, also,” continued Kuno, “you 
must be very careful in this matter. He will soon enough 
be anxious to instruct the boy, for so far I have found no 
one who could resist the influence of this glorious child; 
but you must place difficulties in the way, and then An¬ 
selmo will be all the more set upon teaching him. But 
now, your reverence, call two brothers to my aid, that I 
may bring the lost sheep into the fold,” said Kuno, fall¬ 
ing into his former sanctimonious tone. 

The prior applied a silver whistle to his lips. At his 



THE WIDOW'S SON. 


call Christian appeared and received the requisite instruc¬ 
tions. An hour later the porter's bell of the convent again 
sounded, and Kuno of Witzleb entered, followed by two 
monks bearing a struggling human figure, the head of 
which was enveloped in a thick sack. 

The struggling figure was brought into the convent 
refectory, and the sack taken from its head. 

“ The holy Virgin protect me!" ejaculated Christian, 
as the-lamp light fell on the countenance of the sobbing 
boy; “why, that is Joseph Bonafit, from the Jews' lane 
in Immen-" 

A resounding box on the ear, dealt by the baron's bony 
hand, stopped all further disclosures Christian was dis¬ 
posed to make. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

A PROPHECY. 

In every great city there are parks and pleasure grounds 
where the residents may take refuge from the dust and 
noise of the crowded streets. The same city which was in 
one part defaced by Rubbish lane, was in another part 
ornamented by a large and beautiful park, full of leafy 
arbors, grassy lawns, and sparkling fountains. 

Whoever sought quiet, and yet did not wish wholly to 
withdraw from the world's bustle, could find recreation in 
these beautiful walks, or did he possess a carriage, might 
recline in it at ease and look on the gay throngs at their 
pleasuring. But whoever sought pleasure in solitude, 
found countless delightful retreats in the many arbors 
and grottoes of the park. 

“ Here, Frederick, stop the carriage here; I will get 
out and repair to a grassy bank behind yonder trees, 
which has become a favorite with me, and dream away an 
hour there." 

The carriage stopped instantly. 

A servant in the ducal livery leaped down, opened the 
coach door, and assisted an elegantly dressed gentleman, 
who had but one leg, to descent^ 



99 


The Widow's son. 

tc Shall 1 accompany you, gracious sir?” asked the serv¬ 
ant. 

“No, thanks,” returned the gentleman, whom our 
readers doubtless have already recognized; “just give 
me that cloak, for although it is already pretty warm, it 
is rather chilly for old folks.” 

“Shall I remain within call?” asked the coachman. 

“ You may walk the horses up and down this avenue 
and await me at this spot,” said Benrimo, while the serv¬ 
ant threw a light cloak over his splendid, gold-embroid¬ 
ered dress, thus hiding a number of orders which glittered 
■on his breast. The latter now assumed his crutches and 
was soon lost to view in the shrubbery of the park. 

“ Come on, comrades, come on; let us penetrate into 
the thicket, and arrange a game,” shouted the clear though 
feeble voice of a boy, and a group of youths, clad in the 
uniform of the ducal military school, came wantonly 
pushing their way though the crowd of promenaders in 
the walk. 

Although all appeared to be much older than the one 
who called, the latter was evidently the leader, for the 
rest closely followed him. In him, also, we recognize an 
acquaintance, the descendant of the Weidens, no other 
than young Baron Egmont. 

His uncle’s predictions did not seem to have been veri¬ 
fied, for the results of a Spartan education were by no 
means observable in the young cadet. The youths, our 
Egmont at their head, behaved and deported themselves, 
not like pupils of a patrician institution, but like street 
boys. Thus Egmont, winking slyly at his comrades, 
tripped a corpulent gentleman, and as the latter in falling 
grasped a lady’s dress and tore it from the waist, the 
whole group laughed uproariously, and vanished behind 
the trees. 

“ Egmont, Egmont!” said one of the older cadets, “ I 
am afraid we have made a pretty mess of it. I wish I 
had stayed at home and not gone out again against our 



iOO THE WIDOW'S SON. 

tutor’s command. If you would but leave off playing 
tricks, which can only aggravate our situation.” 

“ Pshaw, Henry the Eaven, cease your croaking; we 
want to have a jollification,” cried Egmont; “and even 
if we are locked up for several hours, all the better; we 
have nothing to study then.” 

Henry, surnamed the Eaven, on account of his gloomy 
prophecies, was silent, and followed his comrades, who 
stormed on with Egmont at their head. 

After the cadets had for awhile committed all sorts of 
mischief, such as trampling on flowers, aiming stones at 
birds, or strewing sand on the clothes of some unsuspecting 
promenader, they began to weary of this sport, and heaped 
reproaches on Egmont, who had promised them great 
pleasures. All sank down ill-humoredly on the grass, 
only Egmont remained standing, in a reflecting mood; 
his influence on his comrades was in danger of being lost, 
if he could not discover something new to please them. 

“What a pity,” began Egmont, “that Jews are ex¬ 
cluded from this walk; what splendid fun we could make 
of them.” 

“Look out for some sport, Egmont, else we will go 
home and surrender ourselves in a body to the tutor.” 

Egmont vanished; the boys amused' themselves for 
awhile, and had almost forgotten him, when he came 
back treading cautiously and signing them to do like¬ 
wise. The group of cadets now glided noiselessly after 
their leader until the latter halted before a grotto. They 
pressed forward to the entrance, and with difficulty sup¬ 
pressed a cry of surprise, so beautiful was the picture 
presented to their view. 

The little daylight that penetrated into the grotto 
dimly illuminated the figure of a lady, who was sitting on 
a stone bench, with head drooped in fatigue or sorrow. 
She was attired wholly in black, and long golden curls 
fell gracefully on her shoulders. Her hands, clasped in 
her lap, gleamed like alabaster against the black folds of 


THE WIDOW'S SOW. 101 

her dress. Artists’ hands had never chiseled a more per¬ 
fect statue of Grief! 

Egmont broke the spell which held the boys inthralled, 
by a frivolous remark, for he had no appreciation of the 
beautiful: 

"See, that is the Witch of Endor; who shall be King 
Saul, and ask his fate of her?” 

"Egmont, I don’t suppose you want to play a trick on 
this poor lady who is so overcome with grief?” said 
Henry the Raven. 

" Certainly; what does the sorrow of another concern 
me, if I can only amuse myself and redeem my promise 
to you? Moreover, I think the beautiful lady is asleep, 
and as it is cold in the grotto she might catch cold if I 
do not rouse her.” 

"Shame, Egmont,” again began the Raven, "does it 
beseem young officers to insult a lady? The instant I see 
you disturb the lady, I shall go away.” 

" Go to the devil. Raven, and leave us in peace,” cried 
Egmont, almost aloud. 

Henry turned away, without uttering a word, and de¬ 
parted. 

"Now, attention,” cried Egmont; and stooping down, 
he crept into the grotto and up to the lady’s feet, where 
he suddenly erected himself. But the lady did not ob¬ 
serve him. 

Egmont now drew his sword (the cadets carried small 
swords) and—the boys at the entrance drew back in 
affright—lightly tapped the lady’s shoulder with it. The 
latter uttered a cry of terror and started up in revery 
from her seat, thus revealing a beautiful countenance to 
the group of boys at the entrance. On catching sight of 
the cadets, she smiled -sorrowfully, and turning to 
Egmont, said, in a silvery voice: "Ah! young man, you 
startled and almost frightened me.” Upon this, she pre¬ 
pared to leave the grotto, but Egmont barred her way, 
and the boys collected around him. 

"Kay, beautiful witch,” cried Egmont, "you cannot 





102 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


leave this spot ere you have prophesied. I am King Saul, 
and these are my halberdiers!” 

“ Pshaw! children; desist!” said the lady, coloring up, 
faintly; “do not be naughty.” 

“Witch of the grotto, you dare to call us children!” 
cried Egmont, seizing the lady’s hand. The latter hastily 
withdrew it, and hurled Egmont back into the grotto, at 
Which his comrades burst into loud laughter, without, 
however, allowing the lady to pass out, Egmont’s face 
was distorted with rage, as we have seen it once before at 
the swamp. Regaining his feet, he again approached the 
lady and said: 

“Do you think that I will suffer such an insult? 
Know that I am an officer and a nobleman, and will allow 
no woman to throw me down!” 

“ Shame on you!” said the lady, her lips trembling with 
rage and displeasure; “ you not only disgrace the school 
to which you belong, but the ducal uniform you wear! 
The duty of every one who carries a sword, be he only a 
cadet, is to protect a lady, not to insult her! Clear the 
way, boys, or it will fare badly with you!” 

But not one of the insolent fellows stirred. 

“ There is but one way, my lady,” said Egmont, mock¬ 
ingly, “and that is to tell us our fortune. Iain Baron 
Egmont, of Weiden, and my word holds good.” 

The lady uttered a low cry and started back. This, 
Egmont attributed to the effect which the mention of his 
name and station had produced. But the lady quickly 
recovered her self-possession, and, stepping forward, said: 

“Very well, Baron Egmont, of Weiden, as you insist 
upon it, I will utter a prophecy: Your escutcheon, Baron 
Egmont, of Weiden, will be trampled upon by the hang¬ 
man, as was that of your uncle, Baron Witzleb!” 

The boys at the entrance of the grotto silently gave 
way, and the lady stepped forth. Egmont stood for a few 
moments like one stunned, then, givingvent to a howl of 
rage, he rushed after the lady with uplifted sword, and 
would have certainly thrust it into her back, had not a 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


103 


firm hand grasped his wrist. He glanced up in surprise, 
and saw the angry face of Benrimo, whom he immedi- 
atelv recognized, as he had seen him at the castle. 

He forgot the lady, who was leaning against a tree, pale 
and trembling, and cried: 

“Come on, comrades! here is a Jew in this forbidden 
place.” 

Several of the more courageous of his comrades ventured 
forth from the shrubbery, and one even asked, in a threat¬ 
ening tone, how a Jew could possess the impudence, not 
only to enter a forbidden part of the park, but insult one 
of his royal highness's cadets. 

Benrimo released Egmont, aiul quietly unbuttoned his 
cloak. When the boys saw his gold-embroidered uniform 
and the orders on his breast, they began to feel rather ill 
at ease, and tremblingly put their hands to their caps to 
perform the military salute, while Egmont stood like 
one fallen from the clouds. 

“ Go,” said Benrimo, “ go; your punishment will reach 
you soon enough. And you, young serpent,” he con¬ 
tinued, turning to Egmont, “ you will not disgrace the 
ducal uniform much longer.” 

Then the old gentleman turned to the lady, who had 
witnessed the whole occurrence: 

“You seem to be greatly agitated; allow me to escort 
you until we reach a public walk.” 

“Thanks, sir,” answered the lady, gratefully; “but I 
see that it is difficult for you to walk, and I will here 
await my servant, who escorts me to this grotto every 
day, for here I can dwell on my sorrows in peace. Per¬ 
mit me, however, to inquire the name of the knightly 
nobleman to whom I owe my rescue.” 

“ That man is neither a nobleman nor a knight,” re¬ 
turned Benrimo, smilingly, “but an old Jew who is fort¬ 
unate enough to be in the good graces of his royal high¬ 
ness.” 

“Ah, you are Benrimo, the friend of our gracious sov¬ 
ereign/' returned the lady, agreeably surprised; “ then 




104 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


allow me to press your hand, and accompany you back to 
the grotto.” 

The lady took Benrimo's hand, offered him a seat, and 
sat down beside him on the stone bench. 

“It is now my duty,” began the lady, “to acquaint 
you with my name. I am the Countess of Weiden.” 

“Good God!” cried Benrimo, “you are the lady-” 

“Yes, lam the lady who has had the misfortune to 
lose her child in such a horrible manner,” interrupted the 
countess, and her glorious blue eyes were suffused with 
tears. 

“You are, then, the relative of the young baron who 
insulted you so infamously to-day.” 

“ Alas, yes; I am his aunt, and he is the sole heir of 
my fortune, in case—in case my little angel is not found 
again.” 

“ Did you not know the young baron?” 

“ No, I never saw him before. We have no intercourse 
with the family, in order not to excite the duke's dis¬ 
pleasure.” 

“ My lady, did you not say that this boy is sole heir to 
your fortune and the title of your husband?” 

“ I said so, and as my husband is an aged man, he per¬ 
haps will soon possess what does not belong to him.” 

“ Are you certain, my lady, that your child was stolen 
by gypsies?” 

“Yes—that is to say, I was told so. Oh, perhaps I 
alone am to blame, for I neglected the poor little boy,” 
and the countess began to weep softly. 

“I am heartily sorry to renew your pain,” said Benrimo, 
“ but it is not curiosity that impels me to ask you for the 
particulars.” 

“ Oh, I know that well; there is not a single person in 
the city who does not pity my unfortunate case; only my 
relative, the Baroness of Weiden, has not expressed one 
word of regret.” 

“ I believe you,” muttered Benrimo, “ and I can imagine 
the reason,” 


105 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 

The countess did not hear this remark; she began again: 

“ My husband and I had been to a ball given by a 
friend. When we returned we found the servants in the 
most terrible consternation, the nurse under the influence 
of a narcotic, and our poor darling child gone. All re¬ 
searches on our part were fruitless. All we could dis¬ 
cover was that the nurse had walked with the child in 
the garden, and had there met a gypsy woman who told 
-her her fortune, and on her suspicion now rests.” 

“ What became of the nurse?” 

The count delivered her into the hands of justice, 
for he suspected that she knew more of the child’s disap¬ 
pearance than she confessed. She was about to be put to 
the torture, although I protested violently against it, 
when she deprived herself of life. Now the mystery is 
darker than ever.” 

“ Was the gypsy captured?” 

“No, she has never been seen since.” 

“ Were gypsies encamped in the neighborhood at the 
•time the child was stolen?” 

“No, nowhere.” 

Benrimo threw back his cloak; it seemed as if he felt 
too warm even in the cool grotto. He remained lost in 
thought for awhile, gesticulated with his hand, stroked 
liis beard, and at last said: 

“ Countess, I must urgently beg you to leave this coun¬ 
try for a time.” 

The countess, to whom the old man’s gestures had 
seemed very strange, now looked at him in surprise, nay, 
even in anxiety, and asked: 

“ Do you mean this, Mr. Benrimo?” 

“ I seriously mean it, gracious lady.” 

“ But why?” 

“ Because your life is in danger.” 

“My life! Pardon me, sir, but I think-” 

“ You think that I talk foolishly; do not be afraid to 
say so, my lady. But take my word for it, your child has 
not been stolen by gypsies—for the present I can say no 







T&E WIDOW'S SON. 


106 

inore. But again I urgently beg of you to leave this 
country, and tell no one where you are going.” 

“Are you a prophet that you see the shadows of coming 
events ?” 

Beiirimo thought of the conversation he had had with 
Joseph, and sighed. He was about to answer, when the 
lady’s servant entered to get his mistress, whom he brought 
to the grotto every day, where she offered up a sacrifice 
of tears to heT child. 

She gave her hand to Benrimo (who gallantly, after the 
manner of the French, pressed a kiss on it) and said, 
heartily: 

“Mr. Benrimo, if you will honor us by a visit, I shall 
be very happy to receive you.” 

“Gracious countess, if you desire ever to see your child 
again, take the advice I have given you,” said Benrimo, 
instead of replying to the invitation of the countess. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE FIRST STEP TOWARD RUIN'. 

The duke was sitting in his private room, the one which 
he called his pouting-place, and opposite him sat his 
friend Benrimo, who had been invested with the title 
“interpreter” since his return to court; for in that age, 
court etiquette and the prejudices of the people, would not 
allow the conferring of titles and offices on Jews, the 
Gentiles deeming that they alone had a right to such. 
Consequently, the duke had been obliged to create a new 
office, with which to invest his friend. 

It was still very early in the morning, and the duke 
was apparently in a bad humor, for he looked very 
gloomy, and repeatedly shook his gray head. 

“It is strange,” began his royal highness, “how one 
mangy sheep may infect the whole flock. Such ill-man¬ 
nered jests and sports—nay, I may say, crimes, have never 
before been perpetrated in my military school; Egmont 
of Weiden, instead of being improved by the strict dis- 



THE WIDOW'S SON. 107 

cipline, has demoralized my other cadets. An end must 
be put to this.” 

“ Yes, indeed, the boy will cause your highness many 
vexations, and when he will have grown to be a man your 
highness will have an implacable enemy in him,” said 
Benrimo. 

“ Yes, he comes of a bad family; his paternal ancestors 
were good and noble, but the connection with the Witz- 
lebs was fatal to the race. A pity that the Countess of 
Weiden has become childless; a strong young branch 
would have grown on an old trunk. You've heard the 
•story, Moses?” 

“ Yes, your highness has told it me before,” returned 
Moses, in an indifferent tone of voice; “it is very strange; 
the wicked all remain, while the good are taken away.” 

“ According to this, we also will have to do away with 
ourselves pretty soon, if we wish to be counted among the 
good ones,” remarked the duke, a light smile dispelling 
the gloom on his countenance. 

<( I did not think of that, your highness; I thought 
only of my poor pupil, who disappeared as suddenly and 
tracklessly as the little count; I allude to Joseph Bonafit. 
In him I would have reared a support to every throne, an 
object of pride to every prince.” 

“ Have you heard nothing whatever of him?” 

“ Xothing, your highness; the poor boy must have been 
carried off by some enemy of mine, who, perhaps, had 
found out how dear Joseph had become to me.” 

“ Think you 30?” asked the duke, watchfully. “I, too, 
have had this thought, and I will now confess it; my sus¬ 
picion is, that the Jews of Immenfeld put the boy out of 
the way, and then accused you of being his kidnapper, in 
order to get rid of you.” 

“ Heaven forbid, your highness; will you never learn 
that a Jew is incapable of such a crime or deed? Xo, no! 
the Jews of Immenfeld have erred, but they are far from 
being wicked, Xay, it is to be ascribed just to their 


108 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


exaggerated piety, their fear of God, resulting in fanati¬ 
cism, that I was not well liked among them.” 

“Has your messenger brought no tidings from there?” 

“Ho, your highness; all I heard was that Josephus 
mother had recovered from her severe illness, and again 
goes out about her daily employments. She seems to be 
somewhat resigned to her fate and comforted, for she says 
that she has had a vision that her son lives. I think, how¬ 
ever that she has received certainty of this from another 
source.” 

“Could you not do something for the poor woman?” 
asked the duke. 

“ I could not, your highness, she would not accept it 
from me; but if the gift were sent in your name, it might 
be welcome,” returned Benrimo, hastily making use of 
this good opportunity. 

“Then I will grant her a pension of two hundred 
florins a year, if you will lake in charge the paying of it.” 

“Most gladly, your highness.” 

"“Then consider it settled.” After a pause the duke 
continued: 

“This conversation has somewhat dispersed my bad 
humor.” 

“ But why does your highness permit your temper ta> 
be disturbed by such a rogue as this Egmont is?” 

“ It is not that, Moses, at least not that alone. See, 
what I have here!” 

The duke handed Moses a handful of shining silver 
coins. The latter looked at them for awhile, then re¬ 
turned them to the duke with a questioning look. 

“ That is counterfeit money, Moses,” said the duke; 
“ my whole country is flooded with it, and still my police 
cannot discover the place where it is coined. Is not that 
sufficient to put me in a bad humor?” 

“ Excuse me, your highness, I somewhat doubt the ex¬ 
cellence of your police force,” 

“I also, Moses,” 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 


109 


“ All the worse; what can become of a country in which 
the police is good for nothing?" 

“ Or in which the rogues are too wary to be caught. 
Do you know, Moses, these counterfeiters can he none 
else than Jews; only they are shrewd enough to evade the 
hands of justice." 

“Your highness speaks so only to make my humor 
suit yours," returned Benrimo, in a grieved tone; “every¬ 
thing bad must perforce proceed from the Jews." 

“Well, well, do not excite yourself, my friend; this 
time I intended nothing but a jest. No, it is not the 
Jews, although they may have some part in the game; 
the main body of counterfeiters are in a region totally de¬ 
void of Jews. The coin was first discovered in the mount¬ 
ains, there where the Convent of St. Francis is situated, 
and from thence, apparently, it has spread over the whole 
country." 

Benrimo remarked: 

“May not the monks of the Convent of St. Francis be 
the counterfeiters? They are almost, if not quite, as 
cunning as the Jews." 

The duke noted the retaliation and smiled without re¬ 
turning an answer. Had either known how closely they 
approached the truth, there would have been an end of 
the counterfeit money. 

“Now, come, Moses, accompany me," said the duke, 
rising. “ I will show this detestable boy the consequence 
of disgracing my colors and my name." 

* * * * * * 

In the great courtyard of this military school about a 
hundred youths were stationed in rank and file. Among 
them were boys who had hardly outgrown childhood and 
youths who were near man’s estate. Immovably they 
stood, with arms reversed and a painful expectation ex¬ 
pressed on every countenance. Even the officers and 
teachers walked about uneasily, and conversed with each 
other in whispers. A great event was impending, but 
what it was to be only the guilty knew. 


110 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 


The duke had sent his adjutant with the command to 
station all classes in the courtyard, and to cover the flag 
with crape and the drums with black cloth, as at a fu¬ 
neral. The commanding officer had posted a guard at the 
gate, for the purpose of announcing the duke’s arrival. 

Suddenly the trampling of horses was heard, the guard 
signed, and the duke, followed by his suite, galloped into 
the yard. A small basket-carriage brought up the rear. 
In it sat Benrimo, attired in a uniform which was dis- 
tinguished by its foreign fashion and rich decorations. 

The drums beat a salute, the flag was lowered, and the 
cadets presented arms. The duke’s face was very gloomy, 
and though all the officers at his side returned the salute, 
he made no motion to do so. 

An anxious shudder passed through the ranks; the 
officers grew pale at the ominous sign that the duke did 
not salute his own colors. When the salutations were at 
an end, the duke ordered an ensign to the front, and said, 
in a loud, angry tone: 

“ Away with the flag! It would disgrace it to wave 
longer over a people who have dishonored it! It shall not 
be borne before you, nor salute me, until the guilty are 
punished and the honor of my corps of cadets is restored 
without a blemish; until the wonted discipline and order 
reign again supreme among youths, of whom almost all 
bear old, honorable names.” 

Tears glittered in the eyes of many youths, who were 
innocent of any fault, and on whom this dreadful punish¬ 
ment fell undeservedly. To be forbidden to bear a flag 
was a humiliation deeply felt by all. 

“ Egmont of Weiden to the front!” thundered the 
duke. 

The youth, thus summoned, slowly crept from the 
ranks, and advanoed to the duke’s horse. The feelings 
which animated him were far from being consoling. 

The duke, casting a glance of marked contempt at the 
boy, turned to the cadets, and said: 

“ You see here the descendant of an old, noble family. 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


Ill 


a boy whose father was a brave man, and a man of honor; 
all of you know this boy's name. He yesterday not only 
disgraced this, but dishonored the sword which his 
sovereign had conferred on him. Had he been guilty of 
a boyish prank, I would have forgiven him; but, not only 
did he insult an unprotected lady, not only did he strike 
her—yes, gentlemen, strike her—with the sword which, 
on his admittance here, he swore to wield only for pro¬ 
tection and right; he would have murdered her, had not 
a stronger hand opportunely intervened. I would have 
placed him before a court-martial, but I do not want to 
inflict such disgrace on honorable men as to order them 
to sit in judgment of such a wretch. I will expel him 
from the ranks to which he has lost all right of belonging. 
Provost, advance!" 

One of the duke’s suite rode forward, dismounted and 
approached Egmont, who could hardly keep his feet, and 
was whimpering: 

“ Mercy, mercy!" 

“Provost, relieve the boy of his sword!" commanded 
the duke. 

A moment later, Egmont’s sword fell with a crash to 
the ground. 

“Provost," the duke went on to command, “cut the 
buttons which bear the arms of his sovereign off: the male¬ 
factor's coat." 

Another moment, and Egmont was devoid of all mili¬ 
tary decorations; not a button was left him. 

“Drummers, advance!" again commanded the duke. 

The drummers advanced. 

“Drum this villain out of the regiment." 

Deadened and mournfully, as at a funeral march, the 
drums rolled, and to their sound the boy who had just 
received such a severe but just punishment, crept out of 
the gate, thrust forth from a profession which honor con¬ 
siders its greatest good. 

Arrived at the street, Egmont turned and spat con¬ 
temptuously on the pavement. 


112 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


“ This disgrace shall be repaid tenfold, base tyrant,” 
said he to himself; “and be it ever so far in the future! 
Nor will I forget to serve out well my beloved aunt and 
the old Jew.” 

A mocking laughter aroused Egmont from his amiable 
thoughts. He looked up and saw a young man who was 
about nineteen years of age, and very elegantly dressed, 
but had a wild expression in his eyes. His figure was tall 
and slender, and beneath his nose a mustache had just 
begun to make its appearance. Through a knot-hole in 
the gate he had witnessed the whole proceeding, and when 
Egmont crept forth, had noticed his gestures and over¬ 
heard his half-whispered words. 

When Egmont, disagreeably surprised by his laughter, 
looked sullenly at the young man, the latter suddenly 
grew serious, and approaching close to Egmont, tapped 
him familiarly on the shoulder, and said: 

“ Never mind, my boy; there are substitutes for the 
buttons, and the world is large enough not to be obliged 
to be dependent on an old tyrant.” 

“But I am dishonored, disgraced for life,” said Eg¬ 
mont, grinding his teeth, and contemplating his button¬ 
less coat. 

“Pshaw! You only think so now; I thought so, too, 
when I was expelled from the high-school; yet Eve come 
to disregard it by this time. What you are now actually 
in fear of is doubtless a sound thrashing from your 
father.” 

“Nonsense!” cried Egmont, contemptuously; “my 
father is dead; I have only a mother.” 

“You are more fortunate than I, I have neither father 
nor mother any more; nor do I regret it, for their joy and 
pride in me would not be great.” 

At these last words the young man’s face had become 
serious, even mournful; but the good impulse quickly for¬ 
sook him, and he said lightly: 

“What will your mother say, when she hears of your— 
misfortune, my boy 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


1 IB 


<c She may say anything she likes, for all I care,” re¬ 
turned Egmont, sullenly; “ she can’t give me anything, 
for she is poor.” 

“I thought you were a noble, as only such are admitted 
into the military school.” 

“That is just my misfortune; they make such a fuss 
about this nobility, one must not sin, turn neither to the 
right nor left. If some plebeian wretch had committed 
such a harmless jest not a hair of his head would have 
been harmed.” 

“ What crime was it for which you were so disgracefully 
expelled?” asked the young man. 

Egmont related the events of the preceding day, and 
added that the Jew who sat in the carriage in the court¬ 
yard was chiefly to blame for this misfortune. 

“Very well,” began the stranger again, after a pause 
of reflection; “you have sworn vengeance on all in there; 
I will help you to carry it out, particularly toward the 
Jew.” 

“How?” asked Egmont, his face clearing. 

“You know,” said the young man, “that the idol of 
the Jews is the golden calf; that is to say, money is all 
they strive for and adore.” How the tempter bent down 
to Egmont’s ear. “ Take away their money, and you de¬ 
prive them at the same time of life.” 

Egmont started back. 

He had grown paler than usual. 

“Steal?” asked he aloud, “steal? Ho, a 'Weiden does 
not steal!” 

Again the stranger broke into mocking laughter; then 
he said: 

“Look at your coat, my boy; regard it well, and tell 
me how a Baron of Weiden ought to look.” 

Egmont stamped his foot and clinched his hand, but, 
as we already know, he was wanting in courage, and the 
stranger was too strong for him. 

“ Don’t be a fool,” said the latter; “ do you want to go 
to your home, most likely an old, ruinous barrack, which 



114 


THE WIDOW'S SON ,» 


you call a castle, and where even the swine-herds will point 
you out to each other; for think you that your disgrace will 
remain a secret? Do you want to mope there, and listen 
daily to your mother’s laments and reproaches? Or do 
you want to be a gay and free man, elegantly dressed, your 
pockets full of money,”—here the stranger jingled the 
coins in his pocket,—‘‘move in merry, gentlemanly 
society, which last is most to be considered, and have the 
prospect of avenging yourself on those who have so grossly 
insulted you?” 

Thus spoke the tempter, and Egmont hearkened to his 
words. 

Yes, it was even as the stranger said. At home, revil- 
ings and shame, want and grief awaited him: it could not 
get to he worse than that here. 

But once again his guardian angel approached him, 
and he thought, perhaps for the first time in his life, of 
his mother. 

“No, no, leave me; I will do nothing to add more dis¬ 
grace to my name; I will not become a thief. I am 
young; I may grow better.” 

“Little fool! who told you to become a thief? Have I, 
perhaps, said so?” 

“Not literally, but you gave me to understand as 
much.” 

“ Because you did not understand me; just come with 
me and you will see that there is as great a difference 
between the trade I and my comrades ply and stealing, 
as there is between an expelled cadet and an old Jewish 
officer.” 

At these derisive remarks Egmont’s face again grew 
dark, and he turned angrily away. 

The stranger saw that he had gone too far, and accord¬ 
ingly began in another strain: 

“Come, young gentleman, don’t be a fool and take 
my jest in bad part; come with me; you can leave us at 
any time if you don’t like our company.” 

“But my mother?” 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


115 


“Pshaw! what does your mother concern me; have 
you not sense enough to write to her and quiet her as to 
your absence? Tell her you have left the military school, 
in order to go to college and study medicine or ply some 
other vocation.” 

“Well, for my part,” and Egmont put his hand into 
the outstretched hand of the stranger, “ I will try it; 
but”—he hesitated again—“what is youv name?” 

“ I am called Devil’s Fred,” was the reply. 

And they went from thence, the tempter and his 
victim. Devil’s Fred and the young Baron of Weiden. 
The first step toward ruin is taken—when will the last 
be attained? 


CHAPTER XV. 

A VISITOR IN' IMMENFELD. 

The Jewish community of Immenfeld again harbored 
a guest. The lesson they had in regard to the Spaniard 
several years ago had tended to increase rather than di¬ 
minish their hospitality, all the more as it had proved to 
them in such a painful manner that birds might be 
judged of by their feathers, but travelers not by their 
lost legs. 

Every stranger who, after Benrimo had left the vil¬ 
lage, made a halt there, was considered as though he were 
a prince, traveling incognito , and was received in the most 
hospitable, friendly and cordial manner; however, none 
turned out to be a duke’s friend in disguise. 

It was about the same time when Baron Egmont had 
followed the tempter into the path of destruction, that a 
traveler presented himself at the dwelling of the presi¬ 
dent of the Immenfeld congregation. The stranger 
looked so dignified and learned, applied such beautiful 
Hebrew verses to what he spoke, that the president felt 
quite loath to assign him a plette (billet) (our readers will 
remember that this signifies an order to a member of 
the congregation to give board and lodging over Saturday 



116 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 


to any stranger), and determined to keep him at his own 
house. 

When asked for his name, the stranger, like the 
“ Spaniard,” declared that he wished to keep it a secret, 
and the president's wife dubbed him Gallach (shaven 
one: the tonsorial application put at his investment as 
priest; a term often used for a Catholic priest, as the 
latter have a round piece on the crown shaven as a 
mark of their order), because she observed a round bald 
place on the back of his head. You perceive that the 
president's wife was never at a loss for a suitable nick¬ 
name. However, her husband forbade her using this 
name, for the stranger had greatly impressed him; he as¬ 
sured his wife that he would discover the traveler's name 
on the morrow, when he would be called to the Thorn, at 
divine service. 

In direct contrast to the “Spaniard,” the stranger was 
so pious that he would taste neither soup nor meat on 
Friday, and excused himself by saying that he never par¬ 
took of the meat of an animal which had not been killed 
and dressed before his eyes. “ This is truly a man of 
God,” thought the president. 

“ This is truly a miserable man, to impute to me that I 
am not particular about having everything Kosher,” 
thought the president's wife. 

When, on the morrow, the stranger was called to the 
Thora, the president discovered no more than he had 
previously known. The name which the stranger gave 
was so insignificant, so common, that any one might bear 
it —YitzchaJc bar Yehudah —and in Immenfeld alone there 
were at least five of the like name. But how im¬ 
pressively the stranger pronounced the blessing! He ap¬ 
peared to be greatly agitated, and, as the president 
noted, when he raised his eyes to Heaven, they were 
full of tears, and he lifted the Thora at least twelve 
inches from the desk. 

“ The man must have been wrecked at sea, or passed 
through some danger,” soliloquized the president. “I'll 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 


117 


see if he will pronounce the blessing for surmounted dan¬ 
gers.” 

But nothing of the kind occurred. The stranger 
thanked the president for having been found worthy of 
the honor to be called to the Thor a, and after having 
bestowed no inconsiderable sum as a donation to the poor, 
repaired to the seat allotted to him. 

On the congregation also the stranger had made an 
agreeable impression, and many forgot their devotions in 
observing him. After dinner the president, as was cus¬ 
tomary in every Jewish house, conversed with his guest 
about the Thora and its commentaries and other Jewish 
literature, and this gave occasion for a display of the 
stranger's great learning, which excited the president's 
most intense admiration. 

When they had sufficiently exhausted these subjects, 
they turned to another, one highly interesting to the 
Jews of that age, the Kabbalah (a mysterious kind of 
science among some ancient rabbis, serving for the inter¬ 
pretation of the hidden and mysterious sense of Scripture). 
With due modesty the stranger confessed that he knew a 
little of it, and could, by means of various calculations 
and the use of the Shem Hameforash (the sacred, unpro¬ 
nounceable name of the Deity Eternal, Jehovah), clear 
up some subordinate mysteries. 

The president was delighted, and entreated his guest to 
give him a proof of his learning. The stranger consented, 
but begged silence on the subject until the close of the 
Sabbath. 

In the evening, when there was no cause why the 
stranger should not comply with his host’s modest entreaty, 
the latter again referred to it. The stranger began: 

“ Ask me any question, and I will answer it in a brief 
time.” 

The president reflected for awhile, and then said: 

“Tell me. Rabbi Fit zchak, what remarkable occurrence 
took place among the Jews of Immenfeld some time ago?” 

The stranger drew a book from his caftan, read and 


118 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


calculated, passed his left hand through his hair several 
times, vehemently pierced the air with the thumb of his 
right hand, closed his eyes as if transfigured, and at last 
said: 

“Not long ago a Jew who had not yet become bar- 
mitzvah (confirmed) vanished in a remarkable manner 
from Immenfeld.” 

The president started from his seat and kissed the hem 
of the stranger’s caftan; the latter, however, opposed 
this with all his strength. 

“Rabbi,” cried the president, transported with de¬ 
light, “you are a genuine Ba’al Shem (master of the name 
of God—a cabalist). 

“Now you can perhaps tell what the boy’s name was, 
and how he looked?” 

The stranger again performed the above described 
motions, and finally said: 

“ It is a name which one of our ancestors bore, a great 
name; it begins like the name of God with a Yod, and it 
does not beseem a cabalist to pronounce it.” 

“’Tis the work of God!” cried the awe-struck presi¬ 
dent. 

“Proceed to question me,” said Rabbi Yitzchak. 

“What has become of the boy, rabbi. 

The book was again consulted; then the rabbi raised 
his eyes to heaven and said: 

“Signs are sent from the Lord, and miracles performed 
by him! The boy is in good hands, and will once go 
forth from the place which now shelters him for the joy 
and blessing of all Israel.” 

“ May the place not be known, rabbi?” 

“ The Kabbalah envelops it in the deepest darkness, 
and the power of the greatest cabalist has its boundaries.” 

“ May the mother be comforted by these tidings,” said 
the president. 

“ Will the mother believe you?” returned the rabbi, 
watchfully. 


the widow's son. no 

“ Babbi, you will not fail to be my witness, if I entreat 
you for it.” 

“ Gladly, gladly; lead me there, or, what is still better, 
tell me where the mother of this boy dwells, and I will 
go there alone. The woman probably saw me in the syna¬ 
gogue to-day, and I will not find it difficult to make her 
believe my tidings.” 

“Who, for God's sake, will not beJieve a man such as 
you are?” cried the president, raising his hands in won¬ 
der. Then, drawing his guest toward the window, he 
showed him the Widow Bonafit's house, which could be 
discerned from the others in the street by the circum¬ 
stance that the faintest light proceeded from it. The 
president never thought that a man who could perform 
such wonders ought also to know where the Widow Bonafit 
dwelt. A few minutes later the famous rabbi, the presi¬ 
dent's guest, entered the low room of the Widow Bonafit. 

“ Blessed be he who cometh!” cried the widow, looking 
up from the book she had been reading by the faint lamp¬ 
light. 

“Blessed be the one whom he findeth!”returned the 
stranger, using the ancient Jewish formula for salutation. 
Both had spoken in the Hebrew language, which even 
the women of the time employed for greetings. Mrs. 
Bonafit had arisen, and now drew forth her best stool for 
the stranger. The latter attentively regarded the widow. 
Her slight figure was somewhat bent, her face was seamed 
with wrinkles, her eyes were dim and the eyelids inflamed. 

“That is not the mother he described to me,” said the 
stranger to himself; “but her eyes are swollen with weep¬ 
ing, her face crossed with wrinkles from passionate long¬ 
ing for her dear lost one, and her figure bent by the heavy 
load of grief.” 

“What does the strange gentleman bring?” asked the 
widow. 

“As you have blessed my coming,” returned the 
stranger, “ it shall be so. I bring peace to your house, 
joy to your heart.” 


120 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


“God grant it! for it is long, worthy sir, since either 
sojourned here.” 

“ I bring you tidings from-” 

“From whom—from whom?” said Mrs. Bonafit, seized 
by such a violent trembling that she was forced to cling 
to the table for support. 

“ Even from him you think dead. He lives, and is as 
happy as he can be without his mother, and hopes to see 
her again, although not till the lapse of a few years.” 

The poor mother was weeping. Her praises and thanks 
to God, who had preserved her son, were so pathetic that 
the stranger was forced to turn away his face an instant. 

But the news was too good—the poor creature could 
not credit it, and doubts soon smothered her joy. 

“Oh, sir!” entreated the widow, wringing her hands, 
“ do not deceive me—for God*s sake do not. If you have, 
perchance, come to offer hollow comfort to a poor widow, 
of whose loss you have heard, oh, then, it would have 
been far better had you refrained from coming; for it 
would be dreadful, it would break my heart, were your 
tidings deception; it would bring my heavy head to the 
grave, had your good heart led you to tell me an un¬ 
truth.” 

“Compose yourself, good mother of a brave son. I 
have fortunately brought proofs of the truth of my 
assertion.” 

The stranger drew a folded paper from his caftayi and 
handed it to the widow, who, in her feverish haste to 
open it, partly tore it. Oh, these must be the familiar 
Hebrew characters of her son, for she sinks, half crying, 
half laughing, on a chair, holds the paper near the dim 
light, and essays to read it with her weak eyes. 

The paper contained a few lines, of the following pur¬ 
port: 

“ My Dear, Good Mother,—I am well and happy, 
for I hope to gain what I have resolved upon. Do not 
grieve any more. At first, evil tidings appeared in store 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


121 


for me, bat God has turned my sorrow to joy, my obscur¬ 
ity to light, and will continue to do so in the future. 
This is, perhaps, the only letter you will receive from me, 
until, at some future time, we will meet again. Rely 
upon it that your Joseph will ever keep his inheritance— 
the crown of a good name—as a diadem—bright, shining, 
and in luster. Your son, who, in imagination, kisses 
you. Your ever-loving Joseph.” 

The mother dropped the hand which held the letter, 
and asked: 

“But why does not my Joseph come himself to his 
poor mother, who has grieved for him day and night? 
Why did he wait a whole year before he wrote to me?” 

“We are ungrateful beings,” said the stranger, sternly. 
“Ten minutes ago, news of your son made you ineffably 
happy, Mrs. Bonafit; now, a letter from him does not 
content you.” 

“Pardon, noble sir!” returned the widow, timidly; 
“you are right; but may I inquire where my Joseph is?” 

“Did faithful Hannah ask what would become of her 
son Samuel, when God commanded her to bring him to 
the temple?” 

“Ho, no, but-” 

“No buts; your son is consecrated to a noble purpose; 
he is well, and in good hands; therefore, wait until it 
pleases God to send him back to you.” 

“Noble sir, you seem to know my boy well; conse¬ 
quently, he knows you, and his friend shall be mine. 
Will you not tell me whence you came, and whither you 
are going?” 

“Does the cloud which the Lord sends say whence it 
came? and does the snow of winter tell whither it goes?” 
So answered the stranger, and arose from his seat. 

Mrs. Bonafit did not venture to put anymore questions; 
to her awe-struck senses, the stranger seemed a holy, a 
supernatural being, as he stood with arm upraised tq 
heaven , 



122 


THE WIDOW'S SON.. 


The stranger, looking steadily at the widow, who had 
involuntarily assumed an almost worshiping attitude, 
retreated slowly to the door, and vanished suddenly into 
the darkness, 

Mrs. Bonafit read her son's letter again and yet again. 
The whole occurrence appeared to her like a dream, and 
she needed the rustling of the paper to convince her of 
the truth of this wondrous event. At last she arose, 
pressed a hearty kiss on the paper before placing it 
between the leaves of her prayer-book, and hastened out 
of the house, for her heart was too full, her joy too great, 
to keep all to herself. 

The good woman well knew that the joy of the congre¬ 
gation would not be over great at these tidings; for, as 
we know, her son was not under the tongue of good 
report, and not very deep in their good graces; and then, 
the consistent people had shoved all the blame of the 
Spaniard's loss on him; for, reasoned they, had Joseph 
not disappeared, the Spaniard would be still among them, 
and sooner or later they would have discovered his worth. 
Only the president, whom we have learned to know as a 
quiet, sensible man, took the part of the poor widow, and 
to him she now hastened with the joyous news, which she 
knew would be gladly welcomed by him. 

She found him in his room, where all the lights of the 
Sabbath lamps were lit, and a white cloth spread on the 
table. Mrs. Bonafit was surprised at these preparations, 
but her curiosity was not as great as her desire to impart 
her news, and she was about to speak, when the president 
began: 

“God be with you, Mrs. Bonafit, you are a fortunate 
woman, that such a man has crossed your threshold. I 
know what you desire to tell me; I know all. But do you 
know who it is that brought you the glorious tidings?" 

“ No; but do you know it?" 

“ Certainly I do. Do you not see the Sabbath lamp lit, 
and the white gloth on the. table? All these are in hi% 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 123 

honor. I entertain the stranger who visited yon, it is my 
happiness to have him as a guest.” 

“ Well, but who is he?”asked Mrs. Bonafit, burning 
with curiosity. 

“He is a Ba’al Shem!” cried the president, reverently. 
Mrs. Bonafit sank on her knees in holy awe. 

The Jews of Immenfeld were unfortunate in their 
guests; this time, also, they were on the wrong track. 


CHAPTER XYI. 

BA'AL SHEM AJS T D FRAHCISCAH FRIAR. 

That a Ba’al Shem had come, that he had brought good 
tidings to Mrs. Bonafit, and that the man who had been 
the president's guest over the Sabbath was a Ba’al Shem 
—all these the Immenfeld Jews learned early the next 
morning, and not a few of them said, that although they 
had not been told who the stranger was, they had thought 
that only a Ba’al Shem could look as he did, and pro¬ 
nounce the blessing as he had done; in short, every one 
had something to say about the mysterious man. But 
how did their surprise increase when, on the following 
morning, this same mysterious man went from house to 
house, inquiring at each if its owner were a creditor of 
the Baroness of Weiden. When answered in the affirma¬ 
tive, he unbuckled a heavy belt of money, which he car¬ 
ried around his waist, and paid the note which had al¬ 
ready been half .given up as uncollectable, and not only 
did he pay the debt, but the interest also, in return for 
which he accepted the notes of the baroness. 

When he had in this manner bought up all the debts, 
he inquired who were her creditors in other places, what 
mortgages there were, and the holders of them; then he 
left Immenfeld, after having promised the happy presi¬ 
dent that he would be his guest again on the coming 
Sabbath. 

In Immenfeld, the Jews, as a matter of course, puzzled 



124 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


tlieir heads as to the cause of this strange conduct, and 
the president's home was fairly besieged by curious vis¬ 
itors, until he promised that he would ask the Ba’al S/iem 
for his secret when he returned, as soon as he should have 
a good opportunity to do so. 

The amount of interest that the Immenfeld congrega¬ 
tion took in the Ba’al Sliem may be calculated by the fact 
that those of them who during the week pursued tlieir 
business avocations elsewhere, and generally returned to 
the village on Friday afternoon, returned this time on 
Thursday, and before proceeding home, went to the presi¬ 
dent's house, to inquire the latest news of the Ba’al Sliem . 

On Friday evening, just before commencement of Sab¬ 
bath, our stranger again came to Immenfeld. A perfect 
ovation greeted the great man's return. The Sabbath 
was passed in peace and happiness, especially in the presi¬ 
dent's house, and when it was evening again, the worthy 
man took heart and said: “Excuse my presumption in 
asking you a question." 

“ Speak, my good man," returned the rabbi, in a con¬ 
descending tone, “if it be in my power, I will gladly an¬ 
swer your question." 

“ What is your purpose, reverend rabbi, in buying up 
all the bonds of the baroness?" asked the president, full 
of curiosity, but rather timidly. “I do not ask out of 
pure love of asking," the president excused himself, “ but 
to tell you, rabbi, that if it be a speculation of yours, the 
baroness does not possess one-fourth of what she owes." 

“I thank you, my good man, but love of speculation 
did not impel me to do this; it has been done for the sanc¬ 
tification of the Name (that of God). My great Zoliar 
(the great famous cabalistic book), shows me how to find 
out the enemies of Israel, and I found out that my people 
have no greater enemy than the baroness; accordingly I 
adopted this plan, in order to render this woman harm¬ 
less now and in all time to come." 

“But another thing, my dear president," continued the 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


125 




stranger., rising from his seat, “ I have intrusted my 
secret to you; you must keep silence, however, that you 
will reveal it to no one.” 

The president acquiesced in this, and to his credit be 
it here said, not a word of the Ba’al Shem’s purpose be¬ 
came known to any member of his congregation. 

The stranger continued: 

“I will remain here to-morrow, but Monday, please 
God, I will go hence, as soon as the morning service is 
ended; but I hope and expect, that in regard to your own 
welfare, none of you will look after me, for danger lies in 
so doing.” 

t( May God protect arid preserve us,” cried the presi¬ 
dent; “if it so be your will, reverend rabbi, we will no 
more look after you, than the people at the Cohanim 
(priests) while blessing them.” 

They went on to speak of different matters, when sud¬ 
denly the stranger asked: 

“ Tell me, sir—my Fohar informed me that you had 
once a man here whom you excommunicated, a great and 
learned man.” 

The president looked at the Ba’al Shem in surprise. 

“ This also do you know, most reverend rabbi?” 

“ Yes, a higher art than mine revealed this to me.” 

“ You probably know in what manner this man left us?” 

“ Certainly,” returned the rabbi, lightly. An unpreju¬ 
diced observer would have soon noticed that our Ba’al 
Shem knew nothing, about it; but so well did he under¬ 
stand how to cross-examine the credulous president, that 
he drew from him all we already know about Benrimo, 
while all the time the worthy man fully believed that the 
stranger knew everything. 

On Monday morning, when the service in the syna¬ 
gogue was ended, and most of the Jews were already going 
about their various vocations and employments, the 
stranger told his host that the time for his departure was 
at hand. 



126 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


The president, as well as his wife, bowed his head to 
receive the great man’s blessing, and thanked him for the 
honor he had done them in thinking them worthy to en¬ 
tertain such a noble and pious visitor. 

Then the stranger left the house. The Jews' lane was 
quite deserted. Not for all the wealth of the Orient would 
man, woman or child have dared to look after the BcTal 
Sherri after he expressed the wish to the contrary. 

The stranger turned in the direction of the graveyard, 
and ascended it. He looked closely at the tombstones 
and read the inscriptions on them. When he had arrived 
at a monument larger than the rest, and which had 
engraved on it two outstretched hands (the sign that a 
priest—Cohen—was buried there), while a large elm 
complety overshadowed it, the stranger passed behind it, 
where he was fully lost to view. After the lapse of five 
minutes a totally different figure emerged, apparently out 
of the ground. Although in size and age closely resem¬ 
bling the president's guest, this man who now came forth 
from behind the gravestone was clad in the habit and 
cowl of a Franciscan friar. A white rope was loosely 
tied about his waist, and a cross and rosary dangled from 
the ends. His face was perfectly smooth; there was not 
a trace of the long beard which the president's guest had 
worn. 

A slight smile illuminating his features, the Franciscan 
friar turned to the village and said: 

“ This time, good people, you have harbored a genuine 
renegade." 

Then he descended the graveyard on the other side, 
passed along the same road that Joseph Bonafit had taken 
on a certain eventful morning, and ascended the hill to the 
castle. 

When he passed through the little gate into the court¬ 
yard, all whom he met sank on their knees before the 
lank, stern-looking monk and solicited his blessing, which 
he dispensed liberally enough. When the Franciscan 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


127 


entered the castle lie remained standing for awhile, as if 
to recover breath. He pressed his hand on his heart, and 
muttered: 

“At last, at last; the day has come on which I shall 
cry quits with you, serpent. Year after year have I 
looked for you, and at last I have found you.” The 
monk went up a flight of broad, stone steps which led to 
the first story of the castle, and passed along the corridor 
until he came to a half-open door. He entered the 
room, in which he found a girl, who, as soon as she 
caught sight of him, sank on her knees, and implored 
the holy man’s blessing. 

“ Is your mistress, the Baroness of Weiden, at home to 
any one?” asked the Franciscan. 

“I’ll go and ascertain, holy father,” returned the girl, 
and vanished. 

After a few minutes she returned, and desired the 
monk to follow her. 

The Baroness of Weiden was sitting in the embrasure 
of the window, where we have seen her once before. 
When she caught sight of the monk, she arose hastily, 
• and humbly advanced to the middle of the room. 

“ Praised be Jesus Christ,” said the monk, in a deep 
voice. 

The baroness started in terror; the words “forever 
and ever, amen,” remained sticking in her throat, and 
she cast glances of mingled fright and suspicion at the 
monk’s face, which was shaded by his cowl. Then the 
baroness uttered a dreadful shriek, and shrank back 
with the cry: 

“God have mercy on me—Dr. Isaac Mundolfo!” 

Pale and trembling in all her limbs she sank on a 
chair. 

“You err, Agnes, Baroness of Weiden,” said the 
monk, sternly; “the physician, Isaac Mundolfo, re¬ 
mained in the dungeons of the Inquisition; he who 
stands before you is the Franciscan monk. Father An- 



128 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


selmo, who has come, as such, to give his blessings. 
But, baroness,” continued the monk, “you do not wel¬ 
come me, do not offer me a seat? Is this the manner 
you treat the sons of the Church? You used to treat 
Dr. Mundolfo more politely.” 

The baroness did not answer; she could not answer. 
Her throat felt as if bound by bands of iron. 

The monk went to the door, opened it, and called out: 
“My daughter, the baroness, is at home to no one. She 
is confessing.” Then he closed the door, and bolted it. 

Father Ansel mo now took a chair, and seated himself 
opposite to the trembling baroness. 

“Well, baroness,” he began, “it is customary among 
business men that, when they wish to wind up their 
affairs, when they come to demand payment, they pre¬ 
sent a bill, on which a list of all the goods they have 
supplied or received is accurately marked down. All I 
have given and received is not marked on paper, like a 
merchant’s bill, but it is graven in my head and heart, and 
you will see, Baroness of Weiden, that I have kept books 
well.” 

“But, Isaac—pshaw. Father Anselmo—what do you 
want of me? I have done you no harm, and I know not 
what induces you, who say you are a man of God, to 
force yourself into the presence of a lady, and terrify her 
with a flood of words of which she does not understand a 
syllable.” 

“ Then, baroness,” returned Father Anselmo, a mock¬ 
ing smile playing around his mouth, “then I have done 
well to bring my account, for you seem very forgetful. 
Very well, I will refresh your memory; should I make a 
mistake, have the kindness to correct it.” 

The baroness arose from her seat, and ran up and down 
the room, wringing her hands. 

“ Compose yourself, gracious lady; to arrange this ac¬ 
count to our satisfaction you must be composed,” ob¬ 
served Father Anselmo. “You must hear me, gracious 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 129 

lady, and the sooner we are done with it, the better for 
both of us.” 

The monk arose and led the faintly struggling baron¬ 
ess back to her chair, on which he forced her to sit down. 

“About twenty years ago,” began Father Anselmo, 
“there lived in Rome a young Jewish physician, by name 
Isaac Mundolfo. Although the Jews were prohibited from 
dwelling in the city, a particular edict had given permis¬ 
sion to this young physician to reside where it pleased 
him; for young as this physician was, he surpassed in skill 
all the older physicians in Rome, and had been so fortunate 
as to cure even the Pope himself of a severe illness. 

“ The young and the old, the wealthy and the poor, 
contended for the favor of this Jewish doctor. He was 
often summoned when the last faint breath came from 
the sufferer's lips, as if it were in his power to banish 
death. This Jew was called the greatest man in the 
world. 

“ Mundolfo was ambitious. His ambition was to learn, 
to enrich his knowledge, daily and hourly, to make new 
inventions in the province of medicine and that of 
chemistry, which was just beginning to occupy the minds 
of men, in order to become more and more useful to his 
fellow-creatures. 

“ Then it happened to Mundolfo according to words 
in the second book of Moses, that‘ a king arose in Egypt, 
who knew not Joseph.’ Thus it happened here also. A new 
Pope, who had never 'heard anything of Mundolfo, 
ascended the papal see. The Pope was constantly in fear 
of being poisoned by the Jesuits, and by no means enjoyed 
his life. His friends mentioned the name of Mundolfo to 
him; they described him as a performer of miracles, but 
neglected" to say that he was a Jew. 

“ Mundolfo was summoned. He came in his carriage, 
profusely decorated with gold; was drawn by two beauti¬ 
ful Abrabian horses. The Pope desired to assign him a 
post at his side; he was to scent from afar off the poison 
which his Holiness dreaded, and always have the antidote 




130 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 

in readiness. For this purpose, he, as a matter of course, 
was to give up his immense practice, reject all who came 
to him for help, and turn a deaf ear to the entreaties of 
anxious mothers and grief-stricken children; and all this 
because an aged man feared the poison of his Christian 
brethren; a feeble, old man, who imagined himself to be 
the representative of God. 

“ Mundolfo did not hesitate long; the choice was not 
difficult for him; he had consecrated himself for humanity, 
and he would not forsake it. He rejected the Pope's 
proposal. 

“ To offend God is a sin, hut to offend the * Vicar of 
Christ' is a crime, punishable with death. Mundolfo was 
to discover this very soon. The Pope was informed that 
Mundolfo was a Jew. Had this Jew not been so popular, 
he would have been burned at the stake; but not even 
the Pope could venture upon such a hazardous enter¬ 
prise. 

“ However, he revoked his predecessor's j)ermission 
that Mundolfo could reside among Christians, and render¬ 
ed his punishment more severe by commanding the phy¬ 
sician to give up his carriage, and ordering him, who 
could come to princes and dukes unannounced, to wear a 
long caftan , and a cap with a red tassel, the badge of 
disgrace for all the Jews in Rome. 

“Mundolfoaccepted this punishment from an imbecile 
old man, with a contemptuous laugh, sold his carriage, 
and removed to the Ghetto. 

“ The Pope, however, had not punished the physician, 
but all his subjects, the foreign ambassadors, the wealthy 
and aristocratic strangers who resided in Rome, and all 
the Roman nobles, for Mundolfo proclaimed that he 
would now go to no patient, that they all must come to 
him. 

“By this means he forced dainty aristocrats to come to 
the filthy, poor, remote streets of the Ghetto, to come for 
their health to a place which their feet had never trodden. 
This was his revenge, and it was complete. The Pope 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


131 


was almost forced to recall his foolish edict, but it was of 
no avail. Mundolfo remained in the Ghetto, and the 
aristocrats were still obliged to come to him, while he 
went on foot teethe huts of the poor, and freely.gave them 
his aid. Mundolfo had learned to know that knowledge 
places man far above kings and popes, nay, that it elevates 
him to he the real sovereign pontiff, for even the Pope 
had been forced to do homage to the man of science.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A SETTLEMENT. 

The baroness, while apparently attentively listening to 
Father Anselmo's relation, sought for some means to 
escape hearing to the end what she already knew only 
too well. Father Anselmo remarked this, and said: 

“ The story bores you, baroness; but pray do not with¬ 
draw your attention, for the end is extremely interesting.” 

The baroness made a movement of impatience and was 
about to answer, but Father Anselmo prevented this. 
He began the second part of his tale. 

“ Mundolfo found happiness in the Ghetto of Rome. 
A beautiful and amiable woman became his wife, and in 
course of time a lovely little daughter was born unto him. 
For several happy years, Mundolfo enjoyed his good fort¬ 
une and his triumph. 

“ But one day—baroness, pay close attention—a strange 
lady came to the physician’s house. She held her dainty 
handkerchief before her mouth, for the peculiar odors of 
the Ghetto affected her unpleasantly. The physician im¬ 
mediately perceived that the lady Was a foreigner, for the 
Roman nobles never insulted him so far as to declare, even 
without speech, that his place of residence was badly 
chosen as regarded their noses. 

“The physician's supposition proved to be correct. 
The lady began to speak in very poor Italian, and was 
greatly delighted when the physician answered in good 
German. The lady gave her name as Agnes, Baroness of 
Weiden, and came on account of her sick husband. You 





132 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


grow pale, baroness. Bali! that is nothing. The story 
is old, and ought not to affect you anymore.” The monk 
interrupted his narration; but as the baroness did not an¬ 
swer him, he continued: * 

“ However, the baroness did not come to the celebrated 
physican to seek alleviation for the sufferings of her hus¬ 
band—the high-born lady came to buy his death of the 
Jew. Yes! shriek, baroness, struggle against a fainting¬ 
fit! The accomplished, aristocratic lady asked for death 
of the physician, to whom all others came for life. f Mun- 
dolfo is but a Jew, and all Jews can be bought/ Thus 
thought the noble lady; and thus, alas! a great many 
think. 

“ However, the Jew declined this offer, very decidedly, 
though the lady told him a pretty fable of a husband who 
was a monster and iniquity, who had squandered his vast 
patrimony of the fortune of his wife, who had sinned 
against morality in various ways, etc., but all was of no 
avail. The physician not only warmly abided by his de¬ 
cision, but admonished the bareness to give up her sinful 
undertaking, and promised to keep secret her disgraceful 
offer only on condition of her never attempting to jeop¬ 
ardize the life of her husband in any way. 

“ The lady departed, and Mundolfo took occasion to 
institute inquiries about the Baroness of Weiden and her 
husband. The noble lady had lied fearfully. Her hus¬ 
band was an honorable man, whose life she imbittered. 
The little fortune he had had she squandered by her ex¬ 
travagance and love of luxury; she herself had never been 
worth a penny, and was the descendant of a family whose 
ancestor had been executed for freebooting, and had left 
his heirs a heritage of which they ever strove to be worthy 
—the heritage of a notorious, if not infamous, reputation. 

“ Several mouths elapsed, and Mundolfo forgot his ad¬ 
venture with the lady. But one day one of his patients 
related to him that the Baron of Weiden was dangerously 
ill, and his fair wife would soon be free to woo another, 
richer husband. 


THE WIDOW'S SON. IBB 

“To the physician's mind it suddenly became clear 
what motive had driven the baroness to seek Mundolfo. 
The physician could not rest. He closely observed the 
hotel where the baron and his wife lodged. One day he 
saw the baroness leave the house, and without a moment's 
delay he entered it, and was conducted to the baron, who 
received him with great demonstrations of joy. 

“ One glance sufficed the practiced eye of the physi¬ 
cian. His presentiment was only too well founded. The 
baron was being slowly poisoned. The physician exam¬ 
ined the sick man, analyzed his medicines, and obtained 
convincing proofs of this fact. The crime bad been com¬ 
mitted, the patient was lost, he had but a few days more 
to live. 

“ As Mundolfo was taking leave of the baron, he heard 
a faint shriek behind him, and, on turning around, be¬ 
held the baroness, who was pale with fright, and clinging 
to a chair for support. Mundolfo retained his presence 
of mind, signed imperceptibly to the baroness, and retired 
to await her in the adjoining room. 

“She entered. Her terror was gone. She stood before 
him a shameless murderess, and looked at him in an 
innocent, questioning manner. 

“The physician stepped up close to her, and said, 
briefly: f Madam, you have murdered your husband!’ 

“ The lady recoiled; she had thought to deceive the sharp 
eyes of the doctor. She no’w had recourse to asseverations 
and vows of her innocence, and grew more and more vio¬ 
lent, as she saw nothing but incredulity on the physician’s 
face, and heard him utter the threat of denouncing her 
as a poisoner. 

“ In one corner of the room there was a prie-dieu , on 
which stood a crucifix. 

“ The baroness at last rushed to this, threw herself on 
the floor in a theatrical posture, and importuned the 
image of ebony and gold to reveal, by a miracle, her 
innocence of her husband's death. 

“ This play with religion so enraged the Jew that he 




1B4 THE WIDOW'S SON. 

seized-the cross* hurled it to the ground, and cried: 
‘Very well* madam; when this image of Christ arises 
from the ground* then I will believe you, but not before/ 

** Mundolfo went home, fiercely resolved to denounce 
the fair prisoner on the next morning, but she forestalled 
him. 

“ That very night Mundolfo was torn from his bed by 
the shirri (constables) of the Pope, and thrown into the 
dungeons of the Inquisition, on an accusation of dese¬ 
cration of Christ. 

“ For a whole year Mundolfo languished in a damp 
cell, to which no ray of the blessed sun could penetrate. 
His feet and hands were loaded with heavy chains, and 
he was fettered to the wall by an iron band which passed 
around his waist. 

“Mundolfo knew that all this was done at the Pope’s 
instigation; that this cell would be his grave, did not a 
miracle liberate him. 

“ And the miracle came to pass. 

“ The Roman nobles came to the Pope to intercede for 
the unfortunate Jew, not because they pitied him, but 
because they were afraid of death, which they thought he 
could banish. But the Pope remained firm. He had got 
his enemy in his power, under the most plausible pretext, 
in which all Christendom must agree with him, and he 
would not let him go. 

“But his Holiness became ill, very ill, indeed, and 
there were vague rumors of poisoning. 

“ One day, a cardinal, secretary to his Holiness, 
entered Mundolfo’s prison, and announced to him that he 
could be free if he would become a Christian. 

“ Much is spoken of the martyrs of olden times. They 
are greatly admired. But Mundolfo was no martyr; he 
had a young wife and child at home. He had regarded 
science as his aim in life; he knew that a great many 
lives were sacrificed while he languished in prison. 
Mundolfo began to waver in his faith. 

“ The cardinal told him that his Holiness was seriously 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


135 


ill, that he desired to have the desecrator of the cross for 
his doctor, but could not before Mundolfo had bowed 
down and worshiped what he had blasphemed. Light 
penetrated into Mundolfo’s soul. It was a light of hell. 
This was the way to revenge himself on his enemy. If 
he became a Christian, not even the Pope could force him 
to be his doctor, did he not feel inclined to do so. 

“ And besides this, the unhappy man thought of his 
wife and child. This was the first time since his im¬ 
prisonment that he had heard aught of them. The car¬ 
dinal had told him that his wife and child were well, that 
they had promised the Pope that Mundolfo would allow 
himself to be baptized if he were set free, and that they 
would also renounce their faith for his. 

“ So Mundolfo was baptized in prison at his own re¬ 
quest. The three drops of cold water did not touch his 
heart—the Franciscan monk, Father Anselmo, remained 
a Jew. 

“ The fetters fell. A carriage was waiting without the 
halls of the Inquisition. They did not even take time to 
cut off the new Christian’s beard, which during his incar¬ 
ceration had grown down to his waist. Thus he was led 
into the sick-room of his Holiness. He asked the Pope if 
he were not afraid to be treated by his mortal enemy. 

“ f You are now a Christian, my son,’ returned the Pope, 
f and no Christian would dare to attack the life of the 
Yicar of Christ.’ 

“ ‘ And are the Jesuits, By whom your Holiness believes 
yourself to be poisoned, no Christians?’ 

“ The Pope was silent. After a pause he asked: 

“ 6 Well, my son, what do you think of my case?’ 

“ ‘I cannot say. I will not examine you before I have 
i seen my wife and child.’ 

“ All present in the sick-room looked at each other in 
> confusion. Mundolfo was led out. He was informed 
j that his wife had been imprisoned in a convent on the 

1 night of his arrest, that she had been forcibly baptized, 
and had died about two months previous to his liberation, 


136 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


Her last words had been an imprecation on the cross, and 
for this reason she was not buried in consecrated ground. 
His child had also received holy baptism, and had then 
been adopted and taken to Germany by a German family, 
whose name was not even known. 

“ And all this was told to Mundolfo by the cardinal, 
the same holy man who a few hours previous had prom¬ 
ised the prisoner to conduct him back to his wife and 
child. 

“ Mundolfo raved and swore, tore his hair and beard; he 
wished to go back to his prison, he wished his baptism to be 
revoked, he felt that the punishment for his apostasy had 
already begun—he felt that he was a lost man in this life 
and the life to come. But the baptism had taken place, 
and could not be recalled nor revoked. 

“ Mundolfo’s art was dead to the Pope. He advanced 
to the bedside of his Holiness, and said, coldly and 
derisively: 

“‘Holy Father, you must die. To-morrow Jesus 
Christ will receive his representative in person/ 

“ Mundolfo had never done such a thing before. He 
had always had some word of comfort even for the dying. 
The miserable old man groaned and wept piteously; he 
did not wish to die. But Mundolfo sat cold and silent at 
his bedside, and only smiled contemptuously at the exer¬ 
tions of the other physicians, who sought in vain to detain 
the fleeing spirit. Mundolfo knew the remedy which 
could preserve the Pope’s life, but he did not apply nor 
betray it. The next day the Vicar of Christ was dead. 

“ Mundolfo, now Anselmo, had only three purposes, to 
effect which he wished to live. 

“ The first was to find the woman who had made him 
unhappy for life; the second, to find his child in Ger¬ 
many, and the third, penance for his crime, apostasy. 

“ ‘ With the latter I began,’ Anselmo now proceeded 
to speak in the first person. 

“I invented a new kind of penance, severer than any 
that sinner ever inflicted on himself. I remained a 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


187 


Christian in order to be reminded daily how heavily I had 
sinned, in order to render the punishment which my 
apostasy merits infinitely great in time to come, in order 
to abhor Christianity, while others pray for it. But I 
had not become a penitent who daily scourges his skin 
because he had abdicated his faith; I became one who 
daily martyrs his soul by practicing Christian ceremonies, 
while thinking and acting as Jew. At times the bap¬ 
tized Jew is overcome by an unconquerable longing for 
his brothers, for his religion. Then he Ihrows off the 
cowl, creeps into the synagogue, and hears the Thorah 
read; and thus he expiates his sin more severely than sin 
ever was expiated before. 

“The second purpose of my life, baroness, is now also 
accomplished,” said Father Anselmo, rising; “ after search¬ 
ing a long time in vain, 1 have at last found you; I have 
heard that you are no better now than you ever were; that 
you have again thrown Jews into a subterranean dungeon, 
only this time it was your dungeon, and not that of the 
Pope. It is time for all such things to cease. I came to 
avenge myself in punishing you.” 

The baroness had cowered lower and lower in her chair. 
She seemed perfectly lifeless. Father Anselmo drew a 
packet of papers from his habit. 

“Here, baroness, are the bills of all you owe. I here¬ 
by give you notice of all of them; if every penny be not 
paid at the legally appointed time, you will leave this 
castle a beggar; I will give it to a Jew, and a Jew will 
reign in the ancestral hall of the Weidens. That is my 
sentence on you, baroness.” 

The baroness sprang up from her seat, and. fell at the 
monk's feet; she importuned him, she entreated him to 
give her time, not to ruin her, not to undo her for her 
child's, her only child's sake. 

“Did you, gracious baroness, have compassion on an 
only child?” asked Father Anselmo, mockingly. 

“ Oh, you are a noble man, a man of God; you are a 
priest,” wailed the baroness, “forgive and forget. Do 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


188 

not make my child, my poor Egmont, unhappy; he has 
an honorable career before him; he is in the duke's mili¬ 
tary school." 

“He was there, madam," returned Father Anselmo, 
quietly, “ he is not there now; he was disgracefully ex¬ 
pelled from the corps, and since then no one has heard 
anything of him." 

“ You lie, you lie, father!" cried the baroness, dread¬ 
fully agitated. 

“No, I do not lie; here is the duke's general order, 
which has been printed and made public." 

Father Anselmo handed a printed paper to the wretched 
woman. She seized it with trembling hands, cast an 
anxious glance at it, and sank with a loud shriek to the 
ground. Father Anselmo composedly walked past 
the prostrate figure, unbolted the door, stepped into the 
hall, and called out: “Come here, my daughter, the 
baroness has been greatly agitated by her confession." 

* * * * * * 

The Jews of Immenfeld were greatly surprised when 
about a month afterward the castle of the baroness was 
put up for sale at auction, and bought by a Franciscan 
monk for a person whose name did not transpire. The 
Immenfeld congregation held quite a little jubilee, for 
their tormentor was punished; and when the baroness, 
with some few possessions, rode from the castle on a rude 
wagon, no one knew whither she was bound, and no one 
cared. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

HOME-SICK. 

Father Anselmo occupied the best cell in the Con¬ 
vent of Saint Francis. In truth, it could hardly be called 
a cell, so large and pleasant a room it was. And Father 
Anselmo had need of a large room, for his chemical and 
surgical instruments alone could not have been forced 
into a common cell, not to speak of his excellent library, 
and the skeletons and skulls which fairly lined the walls. 



THE WIDOW’S SON. 


139 


In the center of the room stood a large oaken table 
bearing a reading-lamp, which has just been lit as we 
enter, for it is evening. 

Father Anselmo is not present, but despite this the 
room has an occupant, and the reading-lamp is serving 
the purpose it is intended for, to wit, reading. 

At the table, his head supported by his hands, sits a 
curly-headed youth, zealously reading from a great Latin 
book. Paper lies near, and the reader holds a pen in his 
hand, with which from time to time he notes something 
down. Then he appears to be calculating what he has 
written; but as the result does not please him, he arises 
and fearlessly approaches one of the skeletons, turns it 
around, and counts the vertebrae of the spinal column 
from the neck downward. 

His face is now turned our way, and we recognize an 
old acquaintance, changed but little, and that to his ad¬ 
vantage; for although the habit fastened round the waist 
by a black girdle conceals his figure, exuberant health 
and extraordinary intelligence are plainly depicted on his 
countenance. 

Yes, dear reader, the youth you see before you is 
Joseph Bonafit, who has now been in the convent some¬ 
what longer than a year, and whose merry, sparkling 
black eyes prove that he is not at all badly off there. 

Bonafit again sat down at the table, and again sup¬ 
ported his head on his hands; then he suddenly closed 
his volume, and said: 

“ This is really a mystery to me, and I shall have to 
wait for its solution until Father Anselmo's return. Ah, 
good, kind Father Anselmo,” Joseph continued to solilo¬ 
quize, “ how 1 long for him. I wonder what dear little 
mother said when she heard of me? How much I should 
like to see her again; but I must have patience. Heavens, 
if the Immenfeld Jews were to know where I am, their 
hair would stand on end. But perhaps it would not 
if they knew howl keep the Jewish rites in this Catholig 
convent. 


140 THE WIDOW'S SON. 

These last words were suggested to Joseph by the en¬ 
trance of another old acquaintance of ours, formerly 
Cobbler Christian of Immenfeld. He bore a waiter on 
which were a bowl of milk and some white bread. 

“ Praised be Jesus Christ!" said Christian, but received 
no answer to his salutation. 

Christian, with a contemptuous movement, shoved the 
books and papers on the table to one side, set down his. 
waiter, and said: 

“ Brother Joseph, here is your supper, and may you 
invite Christ to be your guest." 

Joseph cast a contemptuous glance at the ex-cobbler, 
and said: 

“ Christian, did you invite Christ to be your guest, 
when you drank half of the prior’s wine, and substituted 
water in its stead?" 

“ Sh—sh," whispered Christian, settling himself com¬ 
fortably in a cushioned arm-chair opposite to Joseph. 

“ Sh—sh," he said again, “ Brother Joseph; you must 
not speak anything you cannot justify; indeed, you ought 
not be permitted to speak at all to such holy men as I 
and the prior are." 

Joseph laughed heartily at this connection of persons, 
but Christian did not seem to mind his merriment. 

Joseph attacked his frugal supper with a good appetite, 
while Christian folded his hands over his greasy habit, 
elevated his nose, which was strongly inflamed by drink, 
to the ceiling, and seemed lost in admiration of a stuffed 
crocodile which hung there. 

Suddenly he began: 

“ How, Joseph, I should like to know how a person can 
live a whole year on nothing but bread-and-milk?" 

“ Why, you know that, Christian; just look at me and 
confess that bread-and-milk have agreed excellently with 
me; for I have eaten nothing else, excepting some radishes 
and fruit, since I came here." 

“ Yes, yes, I know that," returned Christian. “ The 
holy fathers are fools to have permitted this. Hot only 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 141 

have they received a Jew as inmate, not only have they 
refrained from baptizing him, they even allow him to eat 
what he likes, and leave what he dislikes. Well, I call 
that a real monastic training.” 

“Just like yours, Christian—just like yours. There 
the holy fathers take a drunkard into their cloister, and 
instead of subjecting him to a strict monastic discipline, 
they permit him to guzzle and drink as much as ho 
wants to.” 

“Brother Joseph, you are very saucy.” 

“Thanks,” returned Joseph, “but that does not im¬ 
prove the matter; the holy fathers knew very well that 
if they did not give me my way Father Anselmo would 
leave them and follow a call to Rome, where they seem to 
have some foreknowledge of his skill; and Father Anselmo 
is a gold mine to the convent.” 

“ Rubbish and nonsense,” returned the ex-cobbler, con¬ 
temptuously; “ there are other smart people in the world. 
For the rest, I really don’t know what notion the crazy 
father has taken to you; at first he did not care about you 
at all.” 

“Yes, that is true; I did not even see him before I got 
so dangerously ill. But when my forcible abduction 
from home and my imprisonment here so affected my 
mind and body as to result in throwing me on a sick-bed, 
he came to see me. Even then he acted coldly and indif¬ 
ferently, prescribed the necessary medicines, and left 
me. But one day his eyes remained fixed on a sort of 
scapulary which you may remember having seen in Im- 
menfeld—for all Jews wear it beneath their garments. 
See,—I mean this here,”—and Joseph drew from beneath 
his gown a small piece of stuff at whose forward end two 
woolen fringes were observable, and which is known to 
all Jews by the name Arba-kanfoth (four borders). 

“Oh, yes; I know that the Jews wear it,” returned 
Christian; “but what had this to do with Father An¬ 
selmo ?” 

“I cannot say, but from that day Father Anselmo's 


142 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 


manner to me changed, and you know that a father could 
not be better to me than he is.” 

“ But I do not understand why the other fathers have 
no objections to Father Anselmo's taking you under his. 
protection, and why they do not make some arrangements 
to have you baptized.” 

“ Father Anselmo promised them that when my studies 
are completed he will not only himself instruct me m his 
religion, but will make me as good a Christian as he is. 
Now—as I heard from Father Anselmo himself—the 
holy fathers count on my becoming, as learned as my 
teacher, and able at some future time to supply his 
place; therefore they grant me all reasonable liberties.” 

Christian was silent for a time, then he said* 

“ Brother Joseph-” 

“ Christian,” the latter interrupted him in a vexed 
tone, “ why do you persist in calling me Brother Joseph? 
You know that it vexes me.” 

“ Because the old Joseph is dead, and I do not want you 
compared to him.” 

“ Foolish man.” 

“ You must not say that. Brother Joseph, I am no more 
foolish than any one, but they called me so in Immenfeld, 
and I don't mind being called so for memory's sake.” 

“ Why, do you not like it here?” asked Joseph, in as¬ 
tonishment. 

“No, not at all.” 

“I can't understand that. While in Immenfeld you 
had to work like a horse for dry bread, you live here like 
a lord, and yet you do not like it.” 

“ No, you cannot comprehend that. Immenfeld is my 
native town; he it ever so humble, there is no place like 
home.” 

“ Heaven knows that’s true,” sighed Joseph, 

“ Don't you feel so too? Do you not pine for your 
mother and for the little hut at home?” 

“Indeed I do; but I have resolved to study and become 
a famous man before I return home,” 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


143 


“ That is something else. I have no need to learn, I 
know enough,’■' said Christian, so emphatically that Joseph 
smiled. 

The ex-cobbler arose, walked around the table to 
Joseph's side, but bent down to his ear, and said: 

“Joseph, I am going to run away; I can stand it 
here no longer; if you want to come along you may." 

Joseph looked at the cobbler in surprise, and asked: 

“Are you in earnest, Christian, or are you drunk?" 

“ I was never more sober, and never spoke more seri¬ 
ously in my life." 

“ But the holy fathers will not let you go, Christian; 
for, as you told me yourself, they treat you like a pris¬ 
oner. ’* 

“That is just it. If I was at liberty to go where I 
pleased, I would not yearn so for Immenfeld. But I can 
stand this captivity no longer. I have prepared every¬ 
thing. When midnight mass is over I shall leave the 
convent, and we can journey toward our home." 

The boy was rendered very anxious by the thought 
that, if Christian came to Immenfeld, he would betray 
his whereabouts, and he tried to dissuade the cobbler 
from his undertaking. However, he did not succeed, and 
Christian at last said: 

“ If you are bound not to let me go, you have only to 
betray me to the prior." 

Joseph felt grieved by this, and told Christian so. The 
latter relented, and said;' 

“ Well, yes, I know you will not betray me, else I 
would not have confided in you. But I was firmly con¬ 
vinced that you would go with me." 

“ Ho, not only can I not go with you, Christian, but I 
urgently pray you not to reveal my place of sojourn." 

“Why, Joseph, are you crazy? Why not? Perhaps 
the Jews will come for you." 

“ That is just what I wish to avoid. They would hardly 
demand me back were they to know my whereabouts, and 
they would certainly consider me an apostate. You re- 


144 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


member f Spaniard’? Well,be was excommunicated for 
less serious reasons, and the same would anathematize me, 
were they to discover that I remained here voluntarily.” 

“ Well, well, I can be silent, too,” said Christian, hold¬ 
ing out his hand to Joseph, who pressed it heartily. 
Then he took up the waiter with the remnants of the sup¬ 
per, and left the room. 

Joseph remained sitting at the table in a very thought¬ 
ful mood. His thoughts flew over the space that lay be¬ 
tween him and home, and lie pictured his poor mother’s 
joy if he were to appear suddenly before her, perhaps 
just as she was puzzling her head as to where her dear 
son could be. He almost repented not having consented 
to fly with Christian, and, once arrived at, home, to place 
himself under Benrimo’s protection, whom he believed to 
have much influence, and of whose departure from Im- 
menfeld he knew nothing. A feeling of revenge against 
Witzleb also influenced him, for that it was he who had 
abducted him he had known a quarter of an hour after 
his capture. 

These thoughts recalled to Joseph’s mind the events of 
that night. He remembered how he had gone to his 
teacher to invite him to his Bar-Mitzvali; how his stay 
there had been prolonged till after midnight; how, on 
emergingfromBenrimo’s house, he had suddenly received 
a blow on the head which had rendered him senseless. On 
regaining his senses, he found himself in a coach, his feet 
and hands firmly bound, his mouth gagged, and opposite 
to him the hated Baron Witzleb, whose secret he had 
partly overheard, which fact, till now, had caused him 
nothing but suffering. 

“Yes,” he cried, suddenly, “yes, I will go home; I 
will fly with Christian. Home—hurrah! home to my 
dear, good mother!” 

Joseph jumped up quickly to leave the room and look 
for Christian. His hand was already on the knob of the 
door, when he paused suddenly, and lowered his head. 
“And my resolutions,” he said to himself, “myambi- 


145 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 

tious plans?” Joseph cast lingering glances on the shelves 
filled with hooks, on the surgical instruments, and even 
on the skeletons and skulls. “Alas!” he continued, 
mournfully, “ye are all so full of mysteries which I should 
like to fathom; ye still hold firmly to a world of wonders 
which the mouth of my master will reveal to me. And 
my master, whose heart is fondly set on me, shall I un¬ 
gratefully leave him for the sake of a caprice, while he is 
full of joy at our prospective meeting? No; I shall re¬ 
main and study. But my mother, my dear, good mother? 
Well, she also must wait until I can step up to her and 
say: ‘ Mother, dear, have you heard of the great, famous 
Bonafit? He is your son—he stands before you!' Yes, it 
shall be so.” 

Joseph's face grew bright again when he had taken this 
resolve; he even took up the Latin volume, and was 
about to resume his studies, when the convent bell tolled 
the hour of ten. Almost simultaneously the door-bell of 
the convent tinkled shrilly, and Joseph heard a well- 
known step on the stone stairs. He listened joyously. 
Now the steps had reached the corridor; they approached 
nearer and nearer. The boy sprang up so boisterously 
that the chair on which he had sat overturned with a 
crash. He rushed to the door, when it was opened from 
without, and Father Anselmo appeared on the threshold. 

“ Good-evening, my son,” said he, stretching out his 
hands. 

“Welcome, welcome. Rabbi Isaac,” cried Joseph, 
throwing himself into the monk's arms, which held him 
closely. “ Have you seen my dear, dear mother, rabbi— 
Father Anselmo?” The boy corrected himself, at a sign 
from the monk. 

“ Yes, my son; she is in good health, and sends you this 
kiss,” and Father Anselmo pressed a kiss on Joseph's 
high, clear brow. 




146 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

BEHIKD THE DOOR. 

Ok the evening of Father Anselmo’s return, the prior 
and the Baron of Witzleb sat eagerly conversing in the 
former’s cell. Their topic must have been of great im¬ 
portance, for th talked in whispers, to avoid all danger 
of their conversation being overheard. At last the prior 
said impatiently: 

“ Baron, you know that whispering is bad for my 
chest; do have the kindness to continue the conversation 
in your usual tone of voice; no one can possibly overhear 
us.” 

“ Just as your reverence desires,” answered Witzleb. 
“ Speak louder, I will fall into your tone of voice.” 

“ I have been puzzling my head for the last year what 
it is that you want to do with that Jewish boy, baron. 
The matter annoys me very much. Father Anselmo tyran¬ 
nizes us all through this boy; he can eat and drink what he 
pleases, does not go to the chapel, never makes the sign 
of the cross; in short, he occupies an exceptional position 
here, one not at all suitable in a convent.” 

“ Never mind, prior, this boy will yet become the pride 
and the making of this convent.” 

“I cannot comprehend in what manner.” 

“ I can believe that; I refer to what I told you the 
evening I brought the boy hither. I intend to do great 
things by his aid.” 

“ And may I not know anything of them?” 

“ No, reverend father; every player must try to retain 
a trump card for himself.” 

“But it is imposing a little too much on us, to encum¬ 
ber us with a Jewish boy, and then say we must not find 
out anything about him,” returned the prior, peevishly. 

“ I did not say that; but I think it too soon to let the 
cat out of the bag. 

“We two generally share our secrets,” said the prior, 
almost threateningly. 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


147 


The baron reflected a few moments, then said: 

“Very well, your reverence, if you will swear on the 
crucifix to keep my secret inviolate, I will impart it to 
you.” 

“ On one crucifix, baron; I will swear on all the cruci¬ 
fixes in the convent, a hundred times on each.” 

“ That you are so willing to swear affects me disagreea¬ 
bly; for this reason I am afraid to intrust you with a 
secret which may cost you your head.” 

“Ugh, ugh!” said the prior, “then let the matter drop; 
I would rather not know it.” 

“ But you will know it some time, although not till 
all my preparations are made, which will take some 
years.” 

The prior did not answer. He lowered his head, and 
the conflict between curiosity and fear could be plainly 
seen on his downcast face. At last the former gained the 
victory, and the prior began: 

“ It is all one in the end, whether a man dies earlier or 
later, as die he must at some time; and should this secret 
be the cause of my death, I will at least know for what I 
die. Impart it to me, baron; I swear never to reveal it.” 

“ No, that is not sufficient guarantee for me any more. 
I must have other security.” 

“What shall that be?” 

“ You must put your reverend signature to a piece of 
writing setting forth that.you are my accessory and ac¬ 
complice. If we are caught, it must be in the same 
trap.” 

“ Ahem, that is a confoundedly dangerous condition. 

“ Yes; but it is a confoundedly dangerous secret.” 

“Well, well, baron, I dare say you wish to lose your 
head as little as I, and as long as I am in possession of 
your secret, I may consider myself pretty safe. Go on, 
write, and I will sign.” 

“ That will not take me long,” said the baron, sitting 
down at the prior's desk. He was as good as his word, 
and soon had the following words written on a small 


148 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


piece of paper: “I voluntarily acknowledge myself to be 
an accomplice and accessory of Baron Kuno of Witzleb.” 

The very plainness of this statement made the prior 
hesitate again. 

“ The devil knows all you have ever done, baron, and 
I am to take half the guilt on myself? No, no, write 
something else. I will not sign that.” 

“Very well, said Kuno, preparing to.tear the paper. 

“Wait, wait a moment!” said the prior; and taking the 
paper he signed it. s , ii 

Kuno took and folded it, put it in his bosom, sat down 
opposite to the prior, and said in a mysterious tone: 

“Attention, your reverence, my words will astonish 
you. I intend to become Duke of Wimmerstein.” 

The prior looked foolish; then, seizing Kuno’s hand 
and feeling his pulse, he said quickly: 

“You are feverish, Baron Witzleb, you ought to go to 
bed, and apply ice on your head.” 

Kuno smiled in a superior manner, and said: 

“ I knew it would surprise your reverence, but I am 
not feverish. I know what I say very well.” 

“That may be so; but I am far from comprehending 
you.” 

“Well, then, listen,” said Kuno; “you know, or be¬ 
lieve you know, that Duke Francis XII. has no direct 
heir. But he had a brother once, who, in his younger 
years, entered the French service, and went to the French 
colony in Canada, in America. He there fell in battle. 

“ On account of some little difficulties, I was obliged 
to leave the court and country of Duke Francis, and 1 
likewise went to Canada, but entered the English service 
there; consequently, I was opposed to the Prince of Wim¬ 
merstein. 

“We had some Indians as allies, and these always 
secured the scalps of our fallen enemies. While prose¬ 
cuting this hideous work, they came to the body of the 
prince, which was distinguished from the rest by the 
jewels and brilliant uniform on it. 


140 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 

“ A dispute arose between the chiefs of two tribes as 
to whom the scalp of this distinguished white man right¬ 
fully belonged, and, as I was on good terms with both, 
they appointed me umpire. 

“I had known the prince at court, and recognized him 
immediately. 

“ I took charge of the papers on him, and left the rest 
to the Indians, although I forbade their scalping him. 

“ That evening, when quietly settled in my tent, I ex¬ 
amined the papers, and found, to my surprise, that the 
prince had been married, and that his young wife and 
infant boy resided in Quebec. 

“At first I attached no importance whatever to my 
knowledge of this marriage, and I thought of nothing 
else than how best and soonest to communicate news of 
the prince to his wife. 

“ I took leave of my colonel and traveled to Quebec. I 
immediately called on the young widow and heard that 
she was ill and her life despaired of. I told her my name 
and gave her all the papers which were of no value to me. 

“ She was greatly surprised to find she was the wife of 
a prince; for her husband had kept his rank strictly 
secret. 

“ Then for the first time a project flashed across my 
brain, by which I could revenge myself in a brilliant 
manner on the duke. He was then absent from his 
country, and my plan was to take his brother’s child to 
Germany, agitate a revolt in his favor, and have him pro¬ 
claimed duke. 

“ I began operations by revealing as much of my plans 
as I thought necessary to the prince’s wife. I bribed her 
physician to order a sea voyage for her, and conducted 
her and her infant to a vessel which was on the point of 
sailing for Europe. Of course I accompanied them. As 
I and the physician had foreseen, the lady died on the 
third day after we had set sail, and I remained sole pos¬ 
sessor of her infant, a splendid child with black, curly 
hair, I took charge of the dead lady’s papers, among 



THE WIDOW'S SON. 


150 

which was a certificate of baptism of the young prince, 
and cared for him as much as was in my power. 

“ But the child also died during the voyage, and my 
beautiful plan apparently fell into the sea with him. 

“ But soon after I had reached Germany, I began to 
form other plans as to how I could procure another heir to 
the throne. But no one suited me until after the lapse of 
years I discovered Joseph Bonafit in the dungeon of my 
sister’s castle, and found that he strongly resembled the 
little prince, as well as the latter’s father. It is true that 
Joseph is a Jew, but baptism will speedily remedy that. 
When once this has been done, and the boy grown sensi¬ 
ble enough to perceive what is to his advantage, he will 
be glad enough to act the pretender to the throne. 

“ Of course it is but natural that, if my plan succeeds, 
lie will appoint me his guardian and regent; and, as I can 
unmask him at any time, he will be completely in my 
power. On my appearance at court, I will adopt such a 
disguise that no one will recognize me. When I am 
actually reigning duke on the part of my ward, I will 
richly endow this convent.” 

“That is all very well laid out, baron,” said the prior, 
as Kuno ceased, “but it is only a phantom of the brain, 
and will hardly be realized.” 

“And why not?” 

“ Because great obstacles are in the way of your design 
being executed,” returned the prior; “ first of all, you 
cannot prove that the prince was married, as even his wife 
did not know his rank; further, it is much to be ques¬ 
tioned, if the boy is adapted for a position so high as that 
of reigning duke, and then—and then, no Jew shall 
reign and govern a Christian country , be it even a baptized 
one .” 

“ Do not judge too hastily, your reverence; leave the 
accomplishment of my project to me, and all will be 
well.” 

“ Yes, but-” the prior stopped suddenly, and bent 

in a listening attitude toward the door; then he signed to 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


151 


the baron, who tiptoed carefully to the door, and with a 
sudden movement opened it wide. 

He recoiled in fear, for he beheld the confused and 
blushing face of Christian, who was crouching without 
the door, and had evidently been eavesdropping. 

A long pause ensued. Then the baron began: 

“ Your reverence, are there any subterranean cells in 
this convent?” 

“ Yes, baron, very desirable ones indeed.” 

“ I allude to such as are impenetrable to the light of 
day, and where all shrieks and screams never reach the 
ears of man.” 

“ Oh, yes,” returned the prior indifferently; “they are 
nothing but niches in the wall; but they are dreadfully 
unhealthy, and no one can live there long, for the water 
constantly stands a foot high in them, and very little 
air has access. In former times the nuns of the adjoining 
convent were imprisoned here when they had been un¬ 
faithful to their vows.” 

“ Well, and now, your reverence, do they not imprison 
any nuns there?” asked Kuno, curiously. 

“No, rarely; almost never,” returned the prior, hesi¬ 
tatingly. 

“ Very well,” said Kuno, arising and going to the door, 
which he opened. “ It is the best way of guarding, our¬ 
selves against eavesdroppers. Brother Christian must be 
made acquainted with the aspect of these cells this very 
night, and ”—he continued in a whisper—“ must never 
see the light of day again.” 

“Was he the eavesdropper?” 

“Yes, I have not trusted this drunkard for along time 
past, and would have liked to put him out of the way this 
good while; therefore I am not at all sorry that this has 
occurred to-day, as it affords me a chance to carry out my 
resolutions.” 

“ Let us wait until after midnight mass; that is the 
best time,” said the prior. 


152 


TEE WIDOW'S SON. 


“Yes, then all are asleep. But how shall we get him 
down?” 

“ Leave that to me; I will leave my cell, and then 
Christian will enter it to drink the wine we have left. I 
will put an opiate in it. When he is asleep we will carry 
him down. As for the coming up, let him take care of 
that himself. I think he will have to give it up as a bad 
job.” 

The chapel bell now called the monks to midnight 
mass, and the prior and his guest arose to follow the sum¬ 
mons. 

It rather surprised the two conspirators that Christian 
was nowhere to be seen; but the prior whispered to the 
baron: 

“ The drunkard is doubtless in my cell drinking the 
wine we have left. May it agree with him, for it is the 
last he will ever drink.” 

When mass was over the monks retired to their re¬ 
spective cells, and the prior sent for Brother Christian. 
He was nowhere to be found. 

Suddenly the door of the prior’s cell was opened, and a 
lay-brother entered, holding in his hand a greasy habit and 
cowl, together with a rope and a rosary. He declared that 
he had found all these lying on the ground without the 
convent walls. 

“ That is Christian’s habit,” cried the prior and the 
baron simultaneously. 

The lay-brother departed, in order to tell the news to 
the other monks who had not retired yet. 

But the baron arose hastily, buckled on his sword, and 
put on his cap. 

“ Shall I order a horse to be saddled?” asked the prior. 

“ No; the rascal has no doubt fled to the mountains, 
and there a horse would be only in the way.” 

“If you will but catch him. We are lost else, for he 
has doubtless run away in order to reveal what he over¬ 
heard,” said the prior, clasping his trembling hands in 
terror. 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


153 


“ Rely entirely on me, your reverence. I warrant you 
Christian will not betray a syllable.” 

The baron hastily left the cell, and soon after the prior 
heard the convent door fall to with a loud crash. 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE CRIM^ IN THE DARK. 

Christian had executed his project; he had made his 
escape during mass. When he found himself without the 
convent walls he drew a breath of relief. The night air 
had never seemed so fresh and exhilarating to him before. 
He stretched his limbs like one who had long been stand¬ 
ing in a cramped position. 

“Ah,” he said, in a half whisper, “I never thought 
that liberty was so pleasant, and could never understand 
that a day's imprisonment was considered a punishment, 
but now I understand it very well. But,” the deserter 
interrupted his soliloquy, “ it is time that I start, else the 
monks will get through their babbling and perhaps miss 
me, though that is hardly possible, as I am never wanted 
after midnight.” 

Christian took off his cowl, and all the vestments which 
would betray him as a monk. He had put on the clothes 
he had brought to the convent, under his habit, and, after 
cutting off a sturdy stick from a neighboring tree, he was 
equipped for his journey. ^ 

He had taken some bottles of wine from the convent, 
which he now tied up in a cloth, hung on the end of his 
stick, and put the stick over his shoulder. Then he 
started on his journey. The reader knows that the con¬ 
vent of St. Francis was situated in a ravine. Conse¬ 
quently, Christian had to walk up the mountain in order 
to gain the road to Immenfeld. It is true, he might have 
taken the easier way in the valley, where a good road lay, 
which also led to Immenfeld; but Christian had various 
good reasons for not choosing this way. First of all, it 
was a roundabout way; then, he might, perhaps, change 
his mind; and another province lay on yonder side of the 



154 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


mountain; at last, most important reason of all, the 
monks might discover his absence in time, and think it 
worth their while to pursue him, in which case he would 
be captured much more easily on an open road than in 
the mountains. 

The foolish ex-cobbler never thought that the Baron of 
Witzleb, who was now in the convent, might not deem it 
advisable to let him escape, nor had he ever suspected that 
the baron had brought him to the convent because he 
knew too many of his secrets. 

Nor did it at all trouble Christian that the baron had 
caught him listening; for, in the first place, he knew 
almost all the baroiTs secrets, and had never betrayed a 
word; and then, he had really heard nothing, for the 
heavy oaken door of the prior's cell closed far too well. 

Christian walked up the mountain at a quick pace. 
Although the night air was very chill, the perspiration ran 
in streams from the wanderer’s brow; for instinct taught 
him to take to the most impassable paths, and force his 
way through the densest shrubbery. 

Had he once reached Immenfeld, calculated Christian, 
then, secrecy was no longer necessary; for there he was 
his own master, and, if questioned, would tell the baron 
that he had got tired of a convent life, would rather live 
in his little house, or go to the city and make merry with 
the baron's band there, of which the reader has already 
heard. 

Christian was far on his way up the mountain when he 
heard the convent-bell toll the hour of two. He was 
astonished to think that he had not drunk for such a long 
while; he therefore halted, wiped his brow, untied the 
cloth, took out a bottle of wine, and almost emptied it. 

Then the fugitive proceeded on his way, but was not so 
quick as before, for his head was somewhat heavy, and 
his feet were tired. Suddenly the moon arose, and 
Christian recoiled in terror. He had almost walked into 
the water, for he had reached the summit of the mourn 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 155 

tain, and there, surrounded by trees and shrubs, lay a 
smooth, glassy lake. 

Much as the ex-cobbler’s perception for the beauties of 
nature was blunted, yet the view before him was so 
enchanting that not even he could pass it by unnoticed. 

“How beautiful, how beautiful [’’murmured Christian, 
looking at the smooth surface of the water, in which the 
silvery moonlight was reflected, and across which the 
shadows of the willows on the bank were cast in a thou¬ 
sand fantastic shapes, while the nodding of the reeds, 
when the breezes whispered in them, resembled myriads 
of dancing little elves. 

“ This is just like an enchanted spot,” said Christian. 
“ I should not be at all surprised were the nymph of the 
water to come tome and say: 'Dear Christian, come 
down with me to my castle. I have numberless pocals of 
gold, from which you can drink as much wine as you 
please.’ 

“ Aha!” Christian hemmed, to check the flow of Jiis 
poetical thoughts, and, growing very prosaic, continued: 
“ Talking of wine reminds me, I had better drink some 
first; the water-nymph might be somewhat long in com¬ 
ing.” Christian looked about him for a seat, and soon 
descried the stump of a tree, on which he comfortably 
established himself, agaki untied his cloth, took out 
another bottle, waved it at the lake, and softly cried: 

“Beautiful water-nymph, to your health!” 

The sound of his own voice startled him; it seemed a 
desecration of peaceful nature. Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle— 
the bottle was empty, and Christian lifted his arm to 
throw it into the water, but, drawing it back again, he 
let the bottle fall into the grass. 

“ Such a thing might insult a water-nymph,” he mut¬ 
tered, drunkenly. “The water-nymphs! But they are 
all dead, the holy priests killed them by cursing them. 
That must have been a beautiful time,” he continued, 
“ when water-nymphs and forest-elves lived their merry 
lives and had no church or priests to be afraid of. How- 


156 TEE WIDOW'S SON. 

adays no one falls into the water unless he be thrown in, 
the water-nymph entices them no more to a watery grave. 
Yes, indeed, this is a splendid place to throw some one 
into the water. I don’t believe that much would ever be 
heard about him.” 

No surprise must be felt at these poetic thoughts of 
Cobbler Christian, who did not even know how to read. 
The faith in water-nymphs and elves was deeply rooted 
in the people, and it is from this source that our poets 
have drawn their wealth of legends and fables. 

Christian’s head fell on his breast; he was lost in deep 
thought, which soon turned into profound slumber, and 
his snoring awoke the echoes of the forest. 

Now the shrubbery was carefully pushed apart, and a 
face appeared at the aperture. Softly, softly, the whole 
figure forced its way through, and approached the sleeper, 
whose back was turned to it. The moon glided behind a 
cloud, as if anxious to avoid the coming scene. 

“ Accursed drunkard!” hissed the man, “you could not 
come in my way more opportunely. You will never over¬ 
hear a secret of mine again. ” 

Drawing a long rapier from his sheath, the man softly 
crept closer to the sleeper, taking heed of the rustle of 
every leaf, and pausing at every twig that cracked beneath 
his foot. Now he caught sight of the sleeper’s face, 
which was turned to the lake; yes, it was he—most cer¬ 
tainly it was he. If the moon would but show herself an 
instant, that one might be more sure in one’s aim—all! 
there she comes forth from the clouds; yes, it is Christian— 
mistake is impossible.” 

The murderer firmly clasps the hilt of his dagger; he 
prepares it for a thrust. With body bent forward, he 
breathlessly advances a step—another, and now a low cry 
escaped the murderer’s lips, and he fell headlong on the 
ground with such force that his dagger flew from his 
hand and fell with a loud splash into the lake. The 
guardian spirit of drunkards had hovered here; the mur¬ 
derer had stumbled over the empty bottle which Christian 



157 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 

had thrown into the grass. The latter started up with a 
cry of terror, for the dagger in its flight to the lake grazed 
him, and he found himself opposite his pursuer, who had 
regained his feet. 

The baron—the reader has long since guessed that it is 
he—finding himself disarmed, calculated his chances 
against a man so strong as Christian, and who, besides, 
was armed with a good stick, and determined to get him 
into his power by good words and persuasion. 

“Christian," said Witzleb, “why did you run away 
from the convent?” 

“I did not like it there any more,” sullenly returned 
Christian. 

“ And so you secretly escaped?” 

' “No, I did not do that; I can come and go at pleasure, 
and as it is hot work journeying by day, I went in the 
night-time.” 

“That was very foolish of you, Christian, very foolish 
indeed. The holy fathers think that you have run 
away; you had therefore better return with me to the con¬ 
vent, and leave it by day. Come, my friend, come.” 

“N-o,” returned Christian, in a drawling tone; “I 
will not go back to the convent, all the less as you have 
taken the trouble to run after me. 

Unconquerable rage boiled in the baron’s breast, but he 
controlled himself, and said, persuasively: 

“Christian, only anxiety for my faithful follower 
drove me after you, and I thank God that I have found 
you safe and well; therefore come back with me.” 

“No!” and with a cunning peculiar to drunkards, he 
continued: “Well, now you have found me, you may 
quietly return to the convent, since you, know that noth¬ 
ing has happened to me.” 

The baron stamped his foot; his restraint was at an 
end. 

“ Will you go back with me or not?” he roared, in a 
tone of voice that woke the slumbering echoes, and made 
the little birds flutter uneasily in their nests. 


158 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


“ No, now I just will not.” 

The baron uttered a howl of rage and fell on Christian, 
who, not expecting this onslaught, was firmly pinioned, 
and could make no use of his stick. He accordingly let 
it drop, and embraced Kuno with his arms likewise. A 
fearful struggle now ensued. The combatants were well 
matched; neither brought the other down, and neither 
ventured to let go, for then the other would gain the 
advantage. 

The grass round about was trampled down as if by 
horses* hoofs, the bushes and shrubs rustled and cracked 
beneath the steps of the combatants struggling for life 
and death, and yet neither fell. The baron forced 
Christian toward the lake without the latter having been 
able to prevent it. He recognized the baron’s purpose, and 
gasped forth, the first words spoken since the beginning 
of the fearful combat: 

“ You must go down with me, baron; you must go 
down with me!” 

The murderer perceived this very well, and tried to 
force Christian ^away from the water’s edge all the more 
as he felt his powers diminishing. 

Now the bottle which had foiled him once before that 
night, was again fatal to him. He stepped on it back¬ 
ward, and stumbling, fell on his back, while Christian 
fell on him, and pressed his knee on the baron’s breast, 
so that the latter was obliged to loosen his hold. 

But the reverence with which the lower classes regarded 
the aristocracy was so great, that Christian’s fist, already 
lifted for a blow, did not descend on the baron’s face; 
besides this, Christian was no murderer, he was a very 
good-natured man, and when he saw the master whom 
he had learned to respect laid low by him, his anger van¬ 
ished like smoke, and still gasping, he said: 

“ There, baron, let us be friends. Get up; go to the 
convent, give my love to the holy fathers. Well, get up, 
baron.” 

The latter sprang to his feet like a flash of lightning, 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 159 

flourished the bottle which he had picked up from the 
ground, high into the air and shattered it on the head 
of Christian, who sank with a low moan to the ground. 

“ There, now you will be silent, rascal,” said the baron, 
kneeling down beside the lifeless body. “But to make 
the matter quite certain, we will confide him to the quiet 
waters of the lake,” continued the baron, commencing to 
roll the lifeless body, which he could not lift, to the lake. 
Another push, another, and still another, and the waters 
parted with a splash, and closed gurglingly over the mur¬ 
dered man. 

The baron washed his hands, and wiped the perspira¬ 
tion from his brow. 

The day was dawning, the sun seemed in haste to re¬ 
veal the scene of the crime just committed, for the 
eastern sky blushed rosy red. Suddenly the report of a 
gun broke the stillness, and this was answered by the 
barking of dogs. 

The murderer turned and fled hastily down the mount¬ 
ain. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

THE SUH BRIHGS THE CRIME TO LIGHT. 

Father Amselmo and his young friend and pupil sat 
up nearly the whole night conversing about the former's 
journey and its purpose. v 

“Was the Baroness of Weiden, who dwells in Immen- 
feld, the one whom you sought?” asked Joseph. 

“ Yes, my son, she is the woman who ruined me; I 
recognized her immediately.” 

“And is the purpose of your journey accomplished, 
father?” 

“ Perfectly; and I owe it to you, my son, that I have 
gained peace, at least in one direction, for it was you who 
first mentioned her name to me.” 

“That is not my desert, father.” 

“ It is a dispensation of divine Providence, who visits; 
the sins of the parents on the children and grandchildren, 



160 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 


and to the third and fourth generations, as I have but 
lately clearly seen in the case of the baroness.” 

“In what manner, father? may I know in what man¬ 
ner?” 

“ Inasmuch as the son of that base woman has already 
proved himself unworthy of the name he bears.” 

Father Anselmo told the attentively listening boy all he 
knew of Baron Egmont, all that is already known to the 
reader. He added some exhortations to Joseph how 
wickedness is often punished betimes, and good rewarded; 
how an evil germ in the heart of a child, if not soon ex¬ 
terminated by good and rigid discipline, swells into a 
poisonous plant which destroys by its polluting breath 
all healthy sprouts that spring around it; how a bad 
bringing up lays the foundation for many a person’s ruin, 
and the yielding to bad inclinations makes criminals even 
of children. 

“Now, Father Anselmo,” began Joseph, when his 
teacher had ended, “ you have not yet told me what the 
punishment was which you went from here to inflict on 
the baroness.” 

“You shall hear it now, my son. The baroness has left 
the ancestral castle of her husband, and will never return 
there; for I have bought up all her debts, as I told you I 
would, before I started on my journey, when I heard from 
you how dreadfully embarrassed the noble lady’s circum¬ 
stances were.” 

“And who bought all these debts?” 

“I, my son; and as a monk of our order is not allowed 
to be a possessor of any property, I had all the purchase 
deeds drawn up in another’s name.” 

“But all this must have cost you a great deal of money,” 
said Joseph, hesitatingly. 

“Yes indeed; it required a neat little sum of money 
to satisfy all her creditors,” returned Father Anselmo. 
“ I know what is now tormenting your brain, my son.” 

“Well, what is it. Father Anselmo?” 

“ You would like to know where I got all the money— 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 161 

I, a poor Franciscan friar, whose whole income belongs to 
the convent; this is what you would like to know, yet 
are afraid to ask. Am I not right?” 

“ You presumed it. Father Anselmo,” answered Joseph, 
in some confusion. 

“ You need not be ashamed of your curiosity, my son, 
it is very pardonable in this case. Wait a moment and I 
will satisfy it.” 

Father Anselmo went to a skeleton which stood against 
the wall, and the single parts of which were hung in wire, as 
is the case in all artificially joined skeletons. He loosened 
one of the thigh-bones, and carried it to the table. He then 
proceeded to screw off the articular extremity of the bone, 
just as you would screw off the top of a needle-case, and 
showed to the wondering eyes of the boy a winding groove 
artfully carved within, into which the upper part fitted so 
exactly, that a person not initiated in the secret would 
never discover the trick. Father Anselmo inverted the 
bone, and a number of glittering stones, some as large as 
peas, and others small as pin-heads, fell from the cavity. 

“Do you know what kind of stones these are, my son?” 
asked Father Anselmo of the wondering boy; “ they are 
diamonds; and these tiny glass-like stones which you see 
here represent a value equal to that of the convent and 
its grounds.” 

Father Anselmo allowed Joseph’s eyes to rest delight¬ 
edly on the gleaming stones for awhile; then he replaced 
them in the cavity of the bone, screwed on the natural 
cover, and hung it in its place in the skeleton. Resuming 
his seat at the table. Father Anselmo said: 

“All the hollow parts of this skeleton are nearly filled 
with precious stones, part 'of them diamonds, part emer¬ 
alds, and the rest rubies. I prepared the skeleton in this 
manner during my residence in Rome; it contains the 
remnants of Dr. Isaac Mundolfo’s vast fortune. At the 
time he was forced to retire to the Ghetto, he turned all 
his property into money, for which he bought precious 
stones. He had learned to know that no Jew, even be he 


162 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


a Mundolfo, and as famous, could rest safely in possession 
of his fortune. When, after my baptism, I was released 
from captivity, I found the skeleton uninjured in the 
attic of my house, where I had always kept it. All else 
that had been thought worth taking away was gone. But 
the plunderers had not known what to do with the skele¬ 
ton; it was of too little value, as they thought. 

“ Now, attention, my son; when you leave this convent 
you shall take with you the contents of the skeleton, no 
matter whether I be dead or still alive. One part of its 
contents you shall employ to gain a position for yourself, 
and the other to find my child. Should you succeed in 
this last, I leave it to your generosity to give my daughter 
as much of the inheritance as you think right; I put all 
in your hands.” 

Joseph’s face glowed with delight, not at the prospect 
of becoming a rich man, but at the unbounded confidence 
with which his teacher honored him, who was still but a 
child in years, at the thought that he was appointed to hold 
in trust an immense fortune, and that it was even left to 
him to give as much as he thought proper to the child of 
Anselmo, whom the latter most certainly loved dearly. 
The boy’s breast heaved high with noble pride, and he 
stammered: 

“ My dear, honored teacher, how shall I make myself 
worthy of the great trust you have reposed in me?” 

“You have already proved yourself worthy of it, my 
son; you are discreet and faithful, not like a boy, but 
like a man. You have God and warm love for your 
mother in your heart, and can therefore commit no 
wrong. Great burdens will be. rolled on your shoulders, 
but you will be the man to bear them; and it is but to 
spur you on, to inspire you with high resolves and their 
accomplishment, that I have intrusted you with all my 
secrets, my religion, my journey, and, most important of 
all, that of the skeleton. But now, my son, retire to rest 
for a few hours; the day is dawning, and the convent bell 
will soon toll for early mass. I shall perform my morn- 


163 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 

ing prayers according to the Jewish ritual ere I repair 
to the chapel for mass.” 

Joseph retired to his cell, which was close to Father 
Anselmo’s room, and threw himself on his hard couch. 
He was just falling into a light slumber, when the hell 
for early mass aroused him. His thoughts dwelt on what 
Father Anselmo had intrusted him with that night; he 
erected the most beautiful air-castles; he imagined how 
happy he would be when he led Anselmo’s child to him. 
It was strange that Joseph always thought of Father An¬ 
selmo’s daughter as a half-grown girl, although he re¬ 
peatedly told himself that many, many years had passed 
since she had been taken away from her father, and that 
perhaps many more would elapse ere she was restored to 
him, if the latter should ever be the case at all. Yet it 
was the same with Father Anselmo. He thought of his 
daughter, who might now be a married woman, as the 
little child from whom he had been parted. 

“ Study, study, that is the main thing,” said Joseph to 
himself, always recurring to his favorite theme; “ I must 
try to learn all Father Anselmo can teach me, then I shall 
see the world at my feet. But if I lie here making plans 
I shall get no sleep, and shall be too tired all day to study 
as I ought to.” 

The boy turned his face to the wall and closed his tired 
eyes. 

He was again awakened from his half sleep, and this 
time by a violent ringing of the convent door-hell. Joseph 
knew not why, but the sound of the bell seemed fearful 
and anxious to him; all the more, as its shrill pea] did not 
subside, but called desperately again and again. Soon 
after Joseph heard hasty steps approaching Father An¬ 
sel mo’s door, and the latter was torn open. Some words 
were uttered. Father Anselmo departed hastily, but soon 
came back, knocked at the door of Joseph’s cell, and 
called him: 

“ Joseph, my son, get up, quick; there is a great need 
of making haste!” 


164 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


Joseph leaped from his bed and opened the door. 

“ Come, Joseph, you are to accompany me; all dis¬ 
patch is required: a great crime has apparently been com¬ 
mitted.” 

Joseph put on his habit as quickly as could be, and 
left his cell. Father Anselmo handed him a case con¬ 
taining bandages and instruments, and hastened, as fast 
as his feet would carry him, down the stone stairs. 
Joseph put no questions; he knew they were going to 
some sick person, for, lately, his teacher always took 
him along when the distance was not too great; the prior 
would not permit Joseph to go far from the convent. 
When they arrived in the courtyard, the two donkeys, 
which were always kept saddled for cases of emergency, 
were already standing there, and a young fellow in the 
livery of a hunter was holding a horse by the bridle. 

“ Where is the wounded man?” asked Father Anselmo 
of the latter. 

“In the Forest Inn, on the mountain,” was the an¬ 
swer. 

“Very well, let us start,” cried Father Anselmo; and 
the three mounted their beasts. 

After a hard ride of about an hour, the Forest Inn 
came in sight. All this time not a word had been spoken. 
Although Joseph would have liked to know to whom and 
for what purpose Father Anselmo had been summoned 
in such haste, he restrained his curiosity and waited for 
the clearing-up of this mystery. 

A number of hunters and peasants anxiously ex¬ 
pecting the arrival of the father, were collected in front 
of the Forest Inn, which crowned the summit of the 
mountains, in one of whose ravines the Convent of Saint 
Francis lay. 

The landlord of the inn came out hastily, assisted 
Father Anselmo to dismount, and, without speaking a 
word, conducted him up the creaking wooden stairs to 
the second story. His hand was already on the door- 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


165 


knob, when Father Anselmo laid a restraining hold on 
his arm, and asked: 

“ So you really do not know the man?” 

“No, your reverence; he seems to be a perfect stranger 
in these parts; to judge by his dress, he is a laborer.” 

The landlord opened the door, and all entered. 

On the poor bed an immovable figure lay stretched 
out, the head so enveloped and covered by wet cloths 
that the face could not be discerned. 

Father Anselmo approached the bed, and carefully 
raised the cloths. He started back and uttered a low 
cry. Joseph, who believed that the dreadful appearance 
of the wounded man had elicited the father's low cry, 
took courage, and also approached the bed. He also ut¬ 
tered a low cry, and started back. 

“Ho you know him?” asked Father Anselmo. 

“It is Christian,” returned Joseph, with pale lips; 
“ how comes he here, and in such a condition?” 

“ God knows,” returned Father Anselmo, preparing 
to examine the shattered head of the lifeless man. 

It must here be remembered that neither Father An¬ 
selmo nor Joseph had been informed of poor Christian's 
; disappearance; nor could the monks of the convent suspect 
. who the wounded man was, as~he was not clad in monas¬ 
tic garb, but in his ordinary clothes. 

“There is life in him still,” said Father Anselmo, 
continuing his examination; “we must try to restore 
: him to consciousness, if but for two minutes, so that he 
may reveal to us the name of his murderer.” 

“Is that all you hope to attain?” asked Joseph, sor- 

I rowfully; “ is there no prospect of recovery?” 

“ Not the least; and I doubt if he will be able to 
speak a word, and tell us who it was that put him in this 
terrible state. 

“ My good friend,” said Father Anselmo, turning to 
I the landlord, “ I beg you to leave us, for what we have 
< to do with the wounded man may be too much for your 



166 THE WIDOW'S SON. 

The landlord was glad to be released, and hurried from 
the room. 

“ Who could it be that put this poor devil into such a 
state?” asked Father Anselmo, in a low tone, while he 
poured out a few drops of some fluid into a spoon, and 
administered them to the heavily breathing man. 

“ I have a dreadful suspicion. Father Anselmo,” 
whispered Joseph; “a suspicion which almost becomes a 
certainty, when I reflect how much it lay in the interest 
of a certain person to put this man out of the way.” 

“Who could have had such an interest in this poor 
drunkard?” asked Father Anselmo, without removing his 
eyes from Christian’s pale countenance, while his hand 
pressed the sick man’s pulse. 

“ A man whose secret was known to this poor drunk¬ 
ard; a man whom not only I, but all who know him, 
must believe capable of such a deed.” 

“Do I know him?” asked Father Anselmo. 

“Yes, father, it is Baron Kuno, of Witzleb.” 

“It was he! it was he!” cried a weak voice from the 
bed. 

Christian had opened his eyes, and was looking at 
Father Anselmo. He had regained his senses; he had de¬ 
nounced his murderer. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

A DEATH-BED. 

Father Ahselmo looked at Joseph in surprise. The 
boy had guessed aright; this penetration and acuteness 
greatly pleased him. 

“Where and how did this happen?” asked Father 
Anselmo of Christian. 

But the light of reason had again vanished in darkness; 
the sick man’s eyes were half closed, and his labored 
breathing gave the only sign of life. 

“Do not let him die yet,” whispered Joseph; “he 
must be more explicit in his revelations.” 



THE WIDOW'S SON. 


167 


“That is not necessary, as we know the murderer; the 
man who found the poor fellow will tell us the particu¬ 
lars, and we shall probably discover in the convent how 
Christian came in this dress to the place where he was 
murdered. It is sinful, and does not beseem our noble 
profession, to call back the fleeing spirit for the sake of 
mere curiosity.” 

“ But it is not curiosity, father,” cried Joseph, anx¬ 
iously, “indeed it is not curiosity; this man will take with 
him into the grave a secret which has imbittered my 
days, and probably cost him his life.” 

“ That is another thing; why did you not tell me this 
before, my son ?” 

“ An oath binds me to secrecy. I dare not tell any 
one what I know, and should poor Christian regain his 
senses, I do not see how I am to draw from him what he 
knows, without violating my oath.” 

The wounded man now grew restless, and tossed about 
on the bed. Father Anselmo again poured some drops 
down his throat, but without any visible result. It is 
true, Christian began to talk again, but it was in wild, 
disconnected sentences, and his voice grew weaker and 
weaker, until it sank to a whisper, while his words grew 
fewer, and the pauses between them longer. 

Father Anselmo suddenly signed to Joseph to come 
nearer. 

“At the moment of death, the light of reason often 
flickers up again,” he whispered. Joseph and Father 
Anselmo bent their faces closer to that of Christian. The. 
latter muttered: 

“Have you the child, baron? The carriage must re- 
j turn to-day—just—give it—to me. Yes, yes—the count- 
• ess will weep—away—with the child—to the—Jew's lane 
r —the child—to the—Jew's lane—the city is large—there 
I it will—be least looked for—just give—it to—P- 

Here the muttering suddenly ceased, the wounded 
I man uttered a piercing cry, raised his hand to his head* 
stretched his body, and was dead* 




168 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


Father Anselmo closed the ex-cobbler's eyes and said 
to Joseph: 

“Well, have these last words any reference to your 
secret, or were they hut the wanderings of a delirious 
brain?” 

“I believe,” returned Joseph, thoughtfully, “I believe 
that they have reference to what I know, and though I 
have not learned much, still I am a great deal nearer to 
the discovery of the secret.” 

“And you do not want to impart to me what you 
know of the secret which has probably cost this man his 
life?” 

“Excuse me, father, hut do not require this of me.” 

“You are afraid for yourself, should you betray any¬ 
thing?” 

“ FTo, my most honored teacher, you ought to be con¬ 
vinced that I would risk even my life to please you; but 
do not forget that an oath hinds me, and I hold it sa¬ 
cred.” 

“ God bless you, my son!” said Father Anselmo, greatly 
rejoiced; “you have a true idea of honor, and I see that 
my secrets will rest safely in your bosom. But let us go 
down now, and inquire into the particulars of this murder. 
The man must have received the fatal blow, and then 
been thrown or have fallen into the water, for his gar¬ 
ments are dripping wet.” 

Several hunters and peasants sat in the tap-room of the 
inn, anxiously awaiting the physician's report. Although 
the tidings he brought had been generally expected, still 
all countenances grew pale, fora murder is an occurrence 
which makes all men shudder. 

On being questioned, the hunters now related how, at 
dawn of day, they had approached the forest lake, and 
their dogs, barking violently, had rushed into the reeds 
of the banks and drawn ashore the body of the wounded 
man, who had lain with his feet in the water and his head 
and body among the reeds. 

Father Anselmo observed that the police justice of the 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 169 

district ought to be informed of the murder, and was told 
that this had been done early in the morning, and that 
the officers were momentarily expected. The landlord 
inquired whether the murdered man had confessed, and 
received absolution and the consolation of the church from 
his reverence. 

Father Anselmo returned neither an affirmative nor 
negative reply. He simply said that he had done all it 
was in his power to do for the man, which statement 
Joseph understood as it was meant; while the landlord, 
who was a strict Catholic, interpreted it to his complete 
satisfaction. 

When the officers arrived, they gathered all the details 
of the murder, and finally asked if any one knew who 
the murderer was. Father Anselmo did not hesitate a 
moment, and denounced Baron Kuno, of Witzleb. 

As Father Anselmo believed that the baron was still in 
the convent, preparations were made to arrest him; but 
he was not found there, nor could he be found anywhere. 

The prior did not deny that Witzleb had been in the 
convent till midnight, and that on hearing of Christian’s 
flight he had gone away with the clearly expressed design 
of searching for him, but he had not since returned to 
the convent. 

Kuno, of Witzleb, remained lost; no one ever saw him 
again. 

Only once, about a year after the murder. Father An¬ 
selmo, on passing the prior’s cell, believed he heard the 
baron’s voice within. He opened the door and discovered 
that he had been deceived. The man who sat opposite 
the prior had hair white as snow, and a long white beard 
reaching almost to the waist. He wore the habit of the 
Dominicans, an order who had a convent not far off, and 
whose members often came to visit the monks of St. 
Francis. 

But let us take up the thread of our story again. 

As there was no more work either for the priest or the 
physician in the inn. Father Anselmo and his pupil rode 


no TEE WIDOW'S SON. 

back to the convent. Each was so lost in thought that 
no conversation passed between them. 

When they had reached the convent, told their news, 
and heard in return of Christian's flight, they retired to 
their respective cells, and there sought the rest they were 
so much in need of. 

Evening found teacher and pupil together again, and 
the subject of their conversation was the murder of 
Christian. Joseph now called to mind what Father 
Anselmo's arrival had caused him wholly to forget—that 
Christian had told him how much he wished to return to 
Immenfeld. Thoughts of Immenfeld brought Benrimo 
to his mind, and he asked his teacher if he had heard 
any tidings of him. His surprise was almost as great as 
that of the Jews had once been, when he heard that the 
duke had carried off Benrimo in his carriage. 

“ I know that the good old man was anxious about 
me," said Joseph; “all the more as I was the innocent 
cause of his last quarrel with the congregation. I think 
it will be best to let him know that I am well and con¬ 
tented, as I did my mother." 

“I would not do that," returned Father Anselmo, after 
reflecting for a time, “ I wish to keep the place of your 
sojourn as secret as possible. It does not suit my plans 
to let every one know what has become of you; and only 
reluctantly I gave my consent to your wish of writing to 
your mother. Hanger lies in this even for me, for how 
very easily could the monks find out to what religion I 
formerly belonged, all the more as I was not at all reserved 
in my conversation with the baroness. It is therefore 
better to leave things as they are." 

Joseph Bonafit unhesitatingly submitted in this, as he. 
did in all matters, to his beloved teacher. 

“ When I return to the world," said Joseph, later on, 
“it will be my first endeavor to find the mother of that 
child, of whom you heard without any interference on my 

part. * In the Jew's lane of the city, with a certain P-,' 

said the dying man. That is not much to guide me, but 


THE WIDOW'S SON . 171 

it is more than yon discovered in your search for your 
child, and as you have not yet given up hope of finding 
her, I am all the more sanguine. I do not know how it 
is,” continued Joseph, “but it appears to me as if this 
secret must have some relation to me, or to one whom I 
know and love, and I have always considered my discov¬ 
ery of a part of it as a dispensation of God. I wish, oh, 
how I wish I could tell you more! but my oath, my oath!’ 

“ Do not allow yourself to be carried away either by 
your wish to satisfy my curiosity or the desire to have 
my counsel in the matter. Moreover, you could not tell 
me much more than I heard from Christian, for I do not 
believe that you know the main facts of the secret, and 
the minor particulars would not interest me. Therefore, 
let us drop this unsatisfactory subject, and resume our 
studies.” 

Father Anselmo instructed, and Joseph Bonafit eagerly 
learned, storing every day a fund of knowledge. The 
ambitious boy devoured all books; no subject was too dif¬ 
ficult for him, no problem made too great a demand on 
his indust-y; he never for one moment lost sight of his 
purpose—to enter the world as one of the learned men of 
his time. Father Anselmo managed to procure all the 
works which appeared from time to time, and which cor¬ 
rected old theories, or explained new phenomena. 

Thus occupied by studies, the time passed quickly away; 
the only change in their daily life was when the teacher 
took his pupil with him to some patient, so that the 
young student might learn by practice, what he knew 
already theoretically. All to whom Father Anselmo 
came knew his pupil, loved and honored him, for such 
rare industry could not remain unobserved, and all were 
happy at the thought that Father Anselmo had a suq-. 
cessor as worthy and skillful as himself. 



173 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

AFTER FIVE YEARS. 

“ The measure of time is triple. The future approaches 
slowly, the present speeds away like an arrow from the 
how, and the past is an immovable wall." 

To the young, time passes all too slowly; their restless 
blood is impatient for what is to come; they have not 
learned to economize with life; the ehort span that lies 
before them seems inexhaustible to them; they have not 
yet learned to measure it. The little past that lies behind 
them has been spent in unconsciousness of self, and what 
small part they remember is enveloped in mist and clouds. 
To him who commences a journey the way before him 
appears infinitely long; after'having gone a little way, 
he will have a scale to measure by, and as he proceeds on¬ 
ward his progress will seem faster and faster. 

After this little dissertation the young reader will not 
think of crying, “Oh, what a long time!" when we tell 
him that between this and the last chapter five years have 
elapsed—five years have sunk into the ocean of eternity. 

Yes, Joseph Bonafit has been eight years in the convent; 
for when we left him, in the last chapter, he had been 
there three years, and we now see him again; he is a 
handsome young man of twenty-one years. Tall, broad- 
shouldered, of noble appearance and gait; the lower part 
of his face shaded by a short, dark beard; the brow, back 
of which an immense treasure of knowledge lies conceal¬ 
ed, high and clear; his eyes unfathomable and shining, 
mirroring a pure soul—thus Joseph Bonafit now presents 
himself to us, prepared to begin his struggle, not only 
with life, but with all evil and the vicissitudes of the 
world. 

Although Witzleb had not reappeared since he had 
been accused of the murder of Christian, he still seemed 
to influence Joseph’s fate in the convent, for no obstacles 
were placed in the way of the latter’s inclinations and 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 173 

wishes, and he was not forced to attend the convent 
chapel nor take part in the service. 

Joseph was in his twenty-second year, when one day 
Father Anselmo was summoned to the prior’s cell. When 
he arrived there, the Dominican friar, of whom we have 
once before spoken, was sitting opposite to the worthy 
prior. The latter began: 

“Brother Anselmo, how is your pupil?” 

“ Thanks for your inquiry,” returned Anselmo, “ he is 
passably well. For the rest, he is already an excellent 
physician, as your reverence must have heard from all the 
people around, for they do not ask for me any more, when 
they think they can have Joseph.” 

“ Yes, yes,” said the prior, interrupting Anselmo. “1 
know all about that; but has he made as much progress 
in religious instruction?” 

“ Since your reverence, I think it was last year, com¬ 
missioned me to instruct the youth in our holy religion, 
I have studied with him day and night. He now knows 
as much as any monk, and I will send him to your rev¬ 
erence to be examined.” 

Father Anselmo purposely said this last, for he knew 
that there was no greater ignoramus in the convent than 
the prior, although he pretended to be very learned, and 
loved people to think he was so. 

Father Anselmo was soon convinced that he had acted 
wisely, for the prior said: 

“I have full confidence in you. Brother Anselmo, and 
know that you are able to initiate your pupil into the sa¬ 
cred doctrines of our most holy religion. I know your 
piety so well that I am fully convinced your pupil can 
but follow in your footsteps. Therefore, an examination 
by me is not at all requisite.” 

“ At the time the boy became my pupil, I declared to 
your reverence that your purpose—that of making a good 
physician of him—would never be accomplished did you 
force him to become a Christian ere he himself desired 
it, Neither the convent nor Christianity has sustained a 


174 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


loss by your compliance with my request. While, then, 
his baptism would have been a forcible act, and perhaps 
have filled the boy's heart with aversion to our religion, 
it is now the voluntary request of the man, brings joy to 
our Saviour, and does honor to the convent." 

“ Brother Anselmo, do you mean to say that the young 
man wishes to become a Christian, and has himself asked 
for baptism?" asked the prior, in suspense. 

“ That is just what I meant to say, your reverence; and 
had I not now been summoned hither, I would have come 
of my own accord to ask, in Joseph's name, that he may 
be taken into the bosom of the only true and holy church 
of salvation." 

The Dominican friar, who had all this time seemed 
quite an indifferent auditor, could not refrain from a 
murmur of applause; while the prior, raising his eyes and 
folding his hands, ejaculated a prayer of thanks to the 
Holy Virgin. 

Neither of them observed the derisive smile on Father 
Anselmo’s countenance. 

After a pause, the prior asked: 

“ Brother Anselmo, when do you think that the holy 
ceremony shall take place?" 

“ When your reverence pleases." 

“Well, the sooner the better. The assumption of the 
Holy Virgin will be a fortnight from Sunday, and we will 
fix it for that day. In the meanwhile we will publish 
the tidings of this blessed news," said the prior, quite en¬ 
thusiastically. 

“Hold, your reverence—that must not be. Your rev- 
erenc? forgets that no one knows we have so long sheltered 
a Jew, and that it is a Jew who heals the peasants round 
about. Your reverence must also be aware that he will 
then ever be considered a baptized Jew, and as such never 
gain the confidence of Christians." 

“ That may be, Brother Anselmo, but we have given up 
the idea of keeping Joseph here. Two equally good phy¬ 
sicians are too much for cite convent to keep. You, 



THE WIDOW'S SON. 


175 


Brother Anselmo, are still robust; therefore I have promised 
this worthy Dominican friar that he may take Joseph 
with him to his convent. Later on, when it will please 
God and the saints to take you away, Joseph can return 
here.” 

Anselmo grew pale at the prior’s words, but he soon 
collected himself, and answered, composedly: 

“ Your reverence has but to command, and is always 
wise enough to order the right thing. But I should now 
like to bring this joyous and glorious news to my pupil.” 

“By all means, worthy brother, go, and the Lord be 
with you,” said the prior, and Anselmo departed. The 
door had hardly closed behind him, when the Dominican 
friar sprang to it, and pushed the bolt forward. 

“Make yourself comfortable, dear Witzleb,” said the 
prior, filling two glasses with sparkling wine from a de¬ 
canter; “you must feel dreadfully warm in that beard 
and wig.” 

The friar took off his beard and wig, also his nose, 
which he laid on the table, and now the police could 
have easily found Baron Witzleb, the murderer of Chris¬ 
tian, for there he sat as large as life in the prior’s cell. 

“Matters are better than we thought,” said the prior; 
“ why, the boy fairly begs to be baptized.” 

“ This must be ascribed chiefly to Father Anselmo’s 
zeal,” returned Witzleb, who, like all others, had a proper 
respect for Father Anselmo. 

“But it is to be questioned whether the young man will 
enter so readily upon the second part of your plan.” 

“ That he will, and soon enough; you must not forget 
that the boy is of Jewish descent. Power and money are 
the constant aim of his race, and then, what young man 
would refuse a position such as I can offer him?” 

“This one perhaps, for he has been educated by Father 
Anselmo, a man who does not know what ambition is.” 

“ Offer a duchy to the old friar, and see whether he 
will reject it,” returned Witzleb, contemptuously. 




176 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


“ How do you mean to begin?” asked the prior, after a 
short pause. 

“ After Joseph has been baptized, I will introduce my¬ 
self to him in my character as a Dominican friar, for I 
dare not risk showing my real self to him, and prove to 
him, by the documents I have in my possession, that he is 
heir to the duke, and was only intrusted to the care of 
the old Jewess in Immenfeld. One easily believes some¬ 
thing so agreeable.” 

“Well, supposing he does not consent, despite all 
this?” 

“What then? Keally, I have not thought of that at 
all; in that case, of course, all these years would have 
been wasted, and I should be obliged to begin afresh.” 

“ Yes,” said the prior, peevishly, “then we would have 
boarded and instructed a Jew eight years, and all for 
nothing.” 

“ Not for nothing, prior; you have gained your end, and 
led a stray soul to the feet of the Lord Jesus.” 

The prior laughed bitterly, and said: 

“Truly, ’t would be dearly bought, even not counting 
the danger to which we expose ourselves should Joseph 
reveal our project to the duke. Then, another thing, do 
you not think Father Anselmo would recognize his pupil 
even on the duke’s throne?” 

“ I will provide against this. I shall take the young 
man with me under pretense of introducing him into a 
Dominican convent. You, as I well know, do not per¬ 
mit your monks to pass beyond this province, so there is 
no danger that Father Anselmo will ever meet Joseph. 
Very little news of the world penetrates to this convent, 
and even should Father Anselmo hear of a pretender to 
the crown, he will never dream that it is Joseph.” 

“ But he is often summoned to the city to visit 
aristocratic patients, and he might see and recognize 
Joseph.” 

“ Do you think a monk exists who would not like to 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 177 

see his convent enriched? Is not Father Anselmo a 
monk?” 

“ That does not ease my mind in the least,” said the 
prior, in a discontented tone. 

“ Well then,” cried Witzleb, impatiently; “as soon as 
we see that Father Anselmo knows too much, we will do 
with him as with Christian.” 

“ But in that case our convent loses an immense in¬ 
come.” 

“Which the young duke will replace seven-fold.” 

“ Still I must repeat my former question,” said the 
prior, with unusual obstinacy; “suppose Joseph does not 
agree to your proposal ?” 

“That is hardly to be imagined.” 

“Still, if it should be the case?” 

“Well, then he shall be put into one of the cells we 
once destined for Christian; he will not blab much 
there.” 

“ But what becomes of your heir to the throne then, 
baron?” 

“ Then? Why, then I must look for another?” 

“Are these to be found so easily?” 

“ Oh, they are plentiful.” 

“Well, then I wonder you took the trouble to steal a 
Jewish boy, and have burdened us with him for so long a 
time.” 

“You do not understand; I have before told you 
that this boy closely resembles the duke’s lost brother.” 

“ And why did you delay so long to play your trump- 
card?” 

“ For three reasons. First, I desired the boy to leave 
off his Jewish speech, jargon and gestures; second, I 
wanted him to become a Christian; third, eight years 
ago the duke was still young and strong; now, that he is 
old and feeble, he will listen more easily to the story of an 
heir.” 

“Well, well, I leave all in your hands, Witzleb; let us 
drink again, to the success of your scheme,” said the 





THE WIDOW'S SON. 


m 

prior, filling liis and the baron’s glass; “to the crown 
pretender!” 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

A IT IKTEEEUPTED JOY. 

When Father Anselmo returned to his cell his face 
bore an expression of undisguised, intense hate. 

Joseph was not there, so Father Anselmo had time to 
think over the piece of news he was to impart to him. 
He sat down in the arm-chair before his table and solilo¬ 
quized: 

“ Thus all things are perishable and transitory; it 
seems but yesterday that I took the boy to be my scholar, 
and now our parting is imminent. Well, praise be to 
God, I have done all in my power for him. When his 
fame will penetrate to my solitary cell, I shall be richly 
rewarded for all my work and trouble. But now I must 
devise some project by which to withdraw the young man, 
not only from the danger of being baptized, but from all 
pursuit by the prior. Perhaps it would have been better 
had Joseph made his escape shortly after his arrival here, 
and denounced Witzleb as a kidnapper; but the boy’s 
ardent desire for knowledge was greater than his wish for 
liberty. Later on, my selfishness contributed no small 
share to his staying here, for I could not bear the thought 
of parting from him. How, however, all such consider¬ 
ations must retire to the background; he must go away, 
and if it be only to escape the stings of conscience that 
torture me.” 

Father Anselmo fell into a deep reverie as to the ways 
and means by which Joseph could escape the danger 
that threatened him, and just seemed to have found the 
right thing by the satisfied look his face assumed, when the 
door opened and Joseph Bonafit entered. He hastened 
to his teacher and affectionately pressed his hand. 

“What news, Father Anselmo?” asked the young man, 
dropping into a chair lightly and gracefully, despite the 
cumbersome garment he wore. 


179 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 

“I have nothing very agreeable to impart.” 

“ Ah, bnt there is something?” 

“ Yes, and the sooner you know it, the better for both 
of us. While you were absent I was summoned to the 
prior’s cell, and he asked me if you were prepared to be¬ 
come a Christian.” 

“Of course you answered in the negative,” said Joseph, 
as if this answer were quite self-evident. 

“ You are mistaken, my son, I have averted the catas¬ 
trophe as long as I could; I knew that it would break in 
on us at some time, and as it has come in a time when you 
need fear it no longer, I thought it best to look it in the 
face. You must go out in the world and employ your learn¬ 
ing and skill for the good of your fellow-beings; you must 
go hence to fill your tasks, that of finding my child and 
clearing up the mystery of Christian’s confession; the 
sooner you go the better.” 

“I acquiesce; much as I grieve to leave you, my dear, 
good teacher, I will go away, I will escape this very day, 
if you think it necessary,” cried Joseph, starting from his 
seat. 

“No, my son,” said Father Anselmo, gently pushing 
back Joseph into his seat, “that is not my intention, and 
nothing would be gained by it. The monks must voluntarily 
let you go forever, else you will always live in fear of 
pursuit, besides having drawn the hate of the priesthood 
on yourself; and I know what that is, especially toward a 
Jew. Furthermore, I have a presentiment, that that 
Witzleb who brought you here is not so lost sight of as they 
would fain have it believed; indeed, I think that he still 
exercises considerable influence on your life. He, above 
all, must be kept in ignorance of our proceedings; for, as 
you well know, he does not scruple at a murder.” 

“If you wish to act against your enemies and those of 
Israel you must work in the dark, as they do; nor must 
you step forth into the light until you have your adver¬ 
saries in your power. But, in particular, be careful not 
to raise the anger of the church, for then no hiding or 



180 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


fleeing is of avail; her arm stretches afar, and her eyes 
penetrate the dark. You see, therefore, that you must 
part in peace, not only from the monks, but from the 
Dominican friar, who seems to have quite another end in 
view than occasional visits to the prior." 

“ Then, according to your opinion, I had better he 
baptized," said Joseph, who had grown pale, in an anx¬ 
ious tone. 

“Did I say that, short-sighted boy? Is that all you 
understand from my words?" 

“But how then shall I depart from here in peace?" 

“ As a dead man," said Father Anselmo, composedly. 

Without answering a word, Joseph looked at his 
teacher in surprise, nay, in anxiety; his look was re¬ 
turned by a smiling glance. However, when Father 
Anselmo saw bright drops of sweat appear on Joseph's 
brow, he arose, and caressingly stroking the young man's 
curly locks, said: 

“ Do not be terrified, my son; I have considered well, 
and think this way the best. We will discuss the par¬ 
ticulars another time." 

“ Are you quite well. Father Anselmo?" asked Joseph, 
anxiously, in a hesitating tone. 

“Quite, my son, quite." 

“ Perhaps the prospect of our parting has agitated 
you ?" 

“Although I am deeply grieved at losing you, I have 
gone through worse calamities. I know what you think, 
my Joseph; you think I talk a little oddly. Do not let 
this discompose you; although I am baptized, I confi¬ 
dently hope to ward off and frustrate the designs of that 
wicked Baron Witzleb." 

“ Then you meant something else when you told me I 
must die?" 

Instead of an answer to this question, Father Anselmo 
asked: 

“Do you trust in me, Joseph?" 

“ How can you ask, Father Anselmo* 


181 


THE WIDOW’S SON, 

“ Very well, submit yourself to my care.” 

“So be it,” said Joseph, stretching out his hand to 
Father Anselmo, who pressed it affectionately. 

“Now, Joseph, hasten down to the prior and tell him 
how rejoiced you are to find yourself at the goal of your 
wishes.” 

“ But that is not my opinion.” 

“ Certainly it is, and you speak the truth when you say 
it; you do not tell him that to be baptized is the desire 
of your heart; if he understands it so, 'tis not our fault.” 

“ But he will examine me in the catechism.” 

“ No, he will not, for he does not know it himself. I 
have bragged so much about your knowledge that you 
must rest assured he will not ask a single question, for 
fear that you may discover his ignorance. I am now 
going down to the village to buy what I think necessary 
for seasoning the holy water for the baptismal cere¬ 
mony.” 

Father Anselmo w r ent to the village and made several 
purchases. On his homeward way he filled his sack (all 
Franciscan friars carried sacks) with large stones. When, 
panting under his burden, he came to the convent door, 
the porter asked him what it was that he was carrying. 

“Oh, Tis a penance I have imposed on myself,” an¬ 
swered Father Anselmo, “ because my profession does not 
leave me time to go about and beg bread and vegetables 
for our convent.” 

“A remarkably pious man,” muttered the porter, as 
Father Anselmo ascended the stairs, staggering under his 
burden. 

The next fourteen days saw the quiet convent turned 
into a busy, bustling place. The whole house was cleaned 
and scrubbed, the chapel was painted, and the images of 
the saints received a new coat of varnish; in short, the 
convent gained an appearance so splendid, the like of 
which it had not worn since its erection. 

A cell, in which he was to prepare himself for the 
great hour of baptism, was assigned to the proselyte, and 




182 


THE WIDOW'S SON ,. 


he was conducted to it by the prior himself. However, 
he was not very lonely there, for whenever a monk re¬ 
turned from his begging excursion he hastened to Joseph's 
cell, and there conversed with him on pious and godly 
subjects. 

The monks had always murmured at the sojourn of a 
heretic in their convent; but they had been told that he 
was Baron Witzleb's protege, and as this nobleman was 
very liberal in gifts to their treasury, they could raise no 
remonstrances. After Christian's murder and the baron's 
disappearance, the influence of the prior, whom they 
feared, and of Anselmo, whom they reverenced, was 
powerful enough to keep them silent. To the peasants in 
the neighborhood they never betrayed anything that 
passed within their convent walls, for their own safety's 
sake. Their joy was great when they heard of Joseph's 
request, and all hastened to congratulate him on his re¬ 
solve. On the Saturday which preceded the Sunday for 
which the baptism was appointed. Father Anselmo and 
the young proselyte visited the prior, by whom they were 
received with extreme unction, the worthy superior even 
going so far as to bless the Jew. 

For the last fortnight Father Anselmo had not been 
able to avoid taking Joseph to mass with him, and the 
monks had all been enchanted by the young man's air of 
devotion. 

The prior alluded to this, and praised Joseph's zeal, 
which praise was modestly disclaimed by the young man. 

“Anticipation of the morrow, and probably the excite¬ 
ment of preparing for it, have somewhat agitated the 
young man," said Father Anselmo; “ he is not as well as 
I should like to see him." 

“ It is indeed a solemn act in which the young man is 
about to take part," said the prior, with great pathos. 

“I feel that it is so," answered Joseph, “and, your 
reverence, let me assure you that I rejoice greatly at the 
prospect of my liberation from bondage." 

“Very well expressed, my son 5 very well indeed," cried 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


183 


the prior, who, as a matter of course, misconstrued 
Joseph's words; “ yes, erring mankind without the pale 
of Christianity may well be compared to captives confined 
in the dark. You will not forget, my son, that it was this 
convent that made a man and a Christian of you." 

“ No, your reverence, I will never forget that Father 
Anselmo made a man of me, and that you also desired to 
make a Christian of me." 

Thus the conversation went on, Joseph, in his light, 
youthful spirits, always giving such answers as the prior 
could interpret to his own liking, while Father Anselmo 
understood them as they were meant. 

The prior dismissed them shortly before midnight, after 
having again given the young proselyte his blessing. 

It was about four o'clock in the morning when a hasty 
step descending to the lower story awoke the convent 
cook. He opened his door, and saw before him the pale, 
anxious face of Father Anselmo, who begged him for 
God's sake to kindle a fire as quickly as could be, and 
cook some tea for the young proselyte, who had been 
taken violently sick. 

If a flash of lightning had struck the convent,,its in¬ 
mates could not have been more terrified than when, be¬ 
fore repairing to early mass, they heard the unwelcome 
news of Joseph's illness. The prior, at other times so 
sleepy and slow, bounded up the stairs, two at a time, to 
Joseph Bonafit's cell. 

Father Anselmo sat, pale and depressed, beside the 
young man's bed. Joseph was tossing about in a high 
fever, and when the prior entered he called him a great 
donkey. 

What has happened to him, Father Anselmo?" cried 
the prior; “ how is it possible that the young man sickened 
* so suddenly?" 

“ Probably the excitement he* has lately undergone is 
chiefly to blame," said Anselmo, sadly. 

“ Do you think he will recover sufficiently to be able to 
go through the holy ceremony?" 




184 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


“It may be, if the fever will subside, but I hardly be¬ 
lieve that will be the case. It has set in so violently that 
I cannot but think it is the precursor of a severe ill¬ 
ness.” 

“ Let us hope for the best,” said the prior, sorrowfully, 
and took his departure, as the delirious young man inces¬ 
santly called out: “Take the big donkey away—take him 
away!” 

It was quite early when the Dominican monk made his 
appearance, and was met by the crushing tidings. He 
hurried to the sick-room, which was darkened by shades 
at the window. These the Dominican tore away, and 
stepped up to the bed. It required but one look to con¬ 
vince him that the prior’s words had been only too true. 
The sick man’s eyes were wide open and staring vacantly 
into the distance, his cheeks were scarlet, and his lips 
parched and dry. The Dominican tried another test; he 
seized the young man’s hand, but dropped it immediately, 
for it burned like fire. 

Dubiously shaking his head, and without speaking a 
word, the Dominican left the room. 

The door had hardly closed behind him, when Father 
Anselmo arose, and saying, “ He was the one least easy to 
deceive,” he poured a few drops from a small glass into a 
spoon, and infused them into Joseph’s mouth. After 
but five minutes the vivid color disappeared from Jo¬ 
seph’s face, his hands sank quietly down, his eyes regained 
expression, and he asked, smilingly: 

“ How is the matter going on. Father Anselmo?” 

“Famously,” returned the latter, in a whisper. “My 
invention is invaluable; keep the recipe of it, you may be 
in need of it some time.” 

“ Still, it has somewhat exhausted me,” said Joseph, 
languidly. His eyes closed wearily, and he fell into a 
deep sleep. 



THE WIDOW'S SON. 


185 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE CHURCH OUTWITTED. 

The Sunday which the monks of the Convent of St. 
Francis had expected to be the day of festivity and re¬ 
joicing, passed in dullness and sorrow; and when evening 
arrived the patient was no better than he had been in the 
morning. The Dominican friar seemed most affected by 
this calamitous event. He sat gloomily brooding in his 
cell, receiving the same unrefreshiug reports. 

The prior sought to comfort him in various ways, and 
said: 

“ Do not let this sad accident affect you so much; the 
boy is not dead yet. How often do not people who have 
fever recover from it ? Father Anselmo can do wonders, 
and here, where his heart is in the case, he will do all in 
his power, you may depend upon it." 

“ IPs all very well for you to talk—you do not lose a 
duchy if this boy dies," cried Witzleb, peevishly. 

“ As if it had been in your possession already—as if you 
had only to stretch out your hands for it!" 

“ Yes, yes; I was as sure of it as if it had already been 
in my grasp. My schemes were admirably laid. With 
the remnants of the fortune I made by the manufacture 
of counterfeit money I have bought a house in the city 
and furnished it; I have appeared in society in the role 
of a foreigner; I have for the last three years studied the 
English language, and now all, all for nothing." 

“ But you have two other irons in the fire, baron. 

“ Will you kindly mention these," returned the baron, 
sarcastically. 

“ As you still have the house in the Jew*s lane, and as 
it is provided with all necessary implements, you can 
have recourse to counterfeiting again. That is one plan. 
And then, did you not tell me that you are heir to a large 
estate?" - 

“The latter is true; but since I have busied myself 




186 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


with my great project, I have completely neglected my 
little boy.” 

“Well, then all you have to do is, to look after the 
little count again.” 

“You talk like a silly child, prior; goodness knows how 
long it will still be until the old count dies, and then all 
I will get is the ready money; the immense estates pass to 
my sister’s son, who has not been heard of for the last 
eight years. Besides, I think that the duke will ask the 
emperor to cut off the entail, as he is not very favorably 
disposed toward Egmont of Weiden.” 

“Where is the Count of Weiden with his wife now?” 
asked the prior. 

“Somewhere in Italy; he has been traveling there for 
the last eight years.” 

“ That is vexatious; you do not know where he is at 
present?” 

“No, I wish I did; I would soon put an end to this 
matter, but I think fear of my sister, the Baroness of Wei¬ 
den, has caused his flight.” 

“And where is she?” 

“ God knows. At the time a monk bought up all' her 
debts, she left the castle, went to the city, and disap¬ 
peared, leaving no trace of her whereabouts. You see, 
all things conspire against me, and were the old count to 
die this very day, I would gain nothing by it while my 
nephew remained lost. All I could claim would be the 
few paltry dollars that are offered as a reward to the finder 
of the little count; that is, if I could bring myself to give 
him up.” 

“Where is the child of the Countess of Weiden?” 
asked the prior, watchfully. 

Witzleb was on his guard, and answered: 

“ I held the Jews in check with it, as long as I kept my 
weapon shop in the Jew’s lane. But these are trivial mat¬ 
ters, let us drop the disagreeable subject.” 

“But one thing more, baron. Should you he in need 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 187 

of money again, will you have recourse to your counter¬ 
feiting?” 

“Why, you know that we cannot compete with the 
new brand. Had we not been bunglers compared to this 
people, we would never have given up the business.” 

“Join this band, Witzleb; when one cannot be first, 
one must be contented to be second.” 

“That is impossible; no one knows who belong to this 
band. Their money is to be found everywhere, but 
neither of them nor their leader can the least trace be 
discovered.” 

“That is very unfortunate; but still, I do not think 
that you will long remain in want of money; I just happen 
to call to mind that you once forced quite a neat little 
sum from the Jews in the city. Could not this be re¬ 
peated?” 

“ God or the devil has inspired you with this thought,” 
cried Witzleb, joyously jumping up from his chair. 
“Yes, this shall be repeated. I must have money, 
whether Joseph lives or dies; yes, yes, the Jews shall 
furnish me with money, in case I am compelled to search 
for a new pretender.” 

At this moment the door of the cell was opened, and 
Father Anselmo entered sadly. 

“Well, father?’ cried the prior and the Dominican 
simultaneously. 

“ I am very sorry not to be the bearer of more pleasant 
tidings; but our poor Joseph has the small-pox.” 

Both men uttered a shriek of dread. The prior’s face 
grew distorted, and he sank back moaning into his chair. 

But he suddenly sprang up, seized Father Anselmo by 
the shoulders and pushed him toward the door, crying: 

“Go away, go away, father, you are infecting the whole 
convent. Go up to your patient and do not come down 
again. Hasten, hasten!” and he thrust Father Anselmo 
out of the cell, and slammed the door behind him; then 
he sat down in his chair again, trembling in all his limbs. 

“ And it is you whom we have to thank for all this,” 


188 THE WIDOW'S SON ,i 

lie cried, wrathfully to the baron; “ what a thing to hap¬ 
pen in our convent I” 

Although Witzleb was likewise greatly shaken by the 
dreadful news, he retained his coolness and temper, and 
essayed to quiet the prior, in which, however, he did not 
succeed, as the prior’s discomposure was augmented by 
the lamentations of the monks in the corridors, who had 
been informed by Father Anselmo of the nature of 
Joseph’s illness, and were beside themselves with fear of 
contagion. 

When Witzleb saw that his soothing words produced no 
effect, he arose and prepared to go away, which act brought 
down on him another flood of reproaches and curses; the 
prior screaming that now, after bringing so much mis¬ 
fortune to the convent, he went quietly away, and 
left the poor monks to remain and bear their chances of 
catching the dreadful disease. 

Witzleb quietly suffered all this, and went away full of 
malicious joy, that the accident which caused him so 
much sorrow, equally, though in another manner, grieved 
the monks also. That night and the following day were 
passed by the monks in fear and dread. Those of them 
whose cells were in the same story with that of Anselmo, 
had removed down-stairs, and were quartered two and 
three in one cell. All tremblingly awaited what the 
future would bring forth. Thus another day passed 
without any news from the sick-room. That evening the 
prior was sitting in his cell, letting his rosary glide 
through his trembling hands, when he heard a soft foot¬ 
fall without his door. He recognized the step, and 
started up to bolt his door, but he was too late, and 
Father Anselmo entered. 

“Away, away!” cried the prior. “Who called you 
hither. Father Anselmo?” 

Anselmo approached the prior, who retreated until he 
was stopped short by the wall. 

“ Most reverend prior,” said Anselmo, when he had got 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 180 

the prior to a stand-still, “the patient has asked for holy 
baptism.” 

“ Then baptize him in the dev—in the Lord’s name!” 

“ Yonr reverence, it is the beautiful, nay, the agreeable 
task of the superior to perform this holy ceremony.” 

“ You are a meritorious man. Father Anselmo,” said 
the prior, his teeth chattering, audibly; “the convent 
owes you an acknowledgment. I convey my rights and 
honors on you; baptize the sick man in my name.” 

“ That is too much happiness for me, your reverence; 
I cannot accept it, indeed-” 

“ Accept it, accept it, Father Anselmo, for God’s sake!” 

“ If your reverence commands it, I am bound to obey; 
but I require witnesses; will your reverence be one?” 

“No, no!” cried the prior, beginning to tremble again; 
“ ask Father Martin, or Father Andrew; they are very 
old, and it cannot hurt them—no, no; I meant to say, the 
honor belongs to them. But now go. Father Anselmo; 
go, for God’s sake; else the young man may die without 
baptism, and go straight to hell!” 

Father Anselmo doubtless felt the truth of this, for he 
turned and left the room. He had already opened the 
door, when he once more turned back, causing the fat 
prior to make a backward leap which would have done 
credit to an agile school-boy. 

“But if the two monks refuse to be witnesses, your 
reverence?” 

“Then baptize him without witnesses,” cried the prior, 
quite beside himself; “ then the Father, Son, and Holy 
Ghost will be witnesses!” 

Father Anselmo departed, and slipped up the stone 
stairs, while the prior washed himself with vinegar. 
When Father Anselmo entered his cell, the young man, 
whose illness caused so much terror to the monks, sat at 
the table, consuming bread and milk with a very good 
appetite. His laughing face and speaking eyes gave 
token that he expected to hear some delectable account 
from his teacher. 


190 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 


Father Anselmo sat down, and, forcibly restraining his 
inclination to laugh, told Joseph his conversation with 
the prior, which sent off the young man into such fits of 
laughter that Anselmo was obliged to admonish him to 
quiet his merriment. 

The night advanced, and Father Anselmo gave the 
young man many good counsels—how, when he had 
entered the world, to avoid all snares and temptations. 
Joseph expressed a wish to visit his mother, but Father 
Anselmo strongly and decidedly objected, and plainly 
proved to Joseph that for the present he durst not betray 
himself; that, as he had waited thus long, he must, for 
his own welfare and for that of all who loved him, wait 
awhile longer. 

When, according to Father Anselmo’s calculation, 
midnight mass was about over, he arose in order to play 
out the last scenes in this comedy. As he divined that 
the prior now kept his cell locked, he concealed himself 
in one of the niches in the corridor, and here awaited the 
prior’s return from the chapel. The latter uttered a 
piercing cry as Anselmo suddenly appeared before him. 

“ What are you here for again? What do you want. 
Father Anselmo?” 

“ The dying man wants extreme unction, or the last 
sacrament, your reverence.” 

“ Well, give it him, give it him,” stammered the prior, 
“and leave me in peace!” 

“But your reverence knows that one alone cannot 
administer the holy sacrament. I need two assistants, 
for if I hold the host, I cannot hold the bell and the 
candles.” 

The prior hesitated a moment, for the administering of 
the sacrament to the dying is one of the most solemn 
ceremonies of the Catholic church, and Father Anselmo 
grew pale with fear lest the prior might overcome his 
terror and enter the sick-room. But the prior’s terror 
was greater than his piety: Anselmo’s fear was unfounded. 

“ I’ll tell you what it is, Father Anselmo,” began the 


191 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 

prior; “on the whole, the dying man is but a baptized 
Jew, and therefore has no claim on all the privileges of 
the Church; besides, I shall procure a dispensation from 
the bishop afterward; leave off the lights, carry the host 
in the dark, and ring the bell yourself.” 

“ But, your reverence-” 

“I know very well, that I can rely on you, Father An- 
selmo; you will not speak of this to any one. I know 
that what we are about to do is not quite right, but I can¬ 
not risk the danger of infecting the whole convent. No, 
no, good father, go, and he assured of my gratitude.” 
The prior slipped into his cell and bolted the door. 

Shortly after, the monks heard the peal of the bell 
from the sick-room resound through the corridors. All 
sprang from their beds and fell on their knees, but not 
one opened the door of his cell. Each one rejoiced that 
he was not the one selected to administer the holy sacra¬ 
ment to the dying man. 

Toward morning the death-bell in the chapel tolled for 
the new Christian who had given such great promise, and 
rang a knell to the bright hopes the monks had placed in 
him. 

In Father Anselmo’s room, teacher and pupil sat con¬ 
versing eagerly. They had not even taken the precaution 
of locking the door, for they were very sure that no one 
would disturb them. 

“You see, my son, that I have schemed the matter 
well, and that it has succeeded admirably. By midnight 
to-morrow you will leave the convent, and enter the world 
as a new-born child, so to say; for here you will be dead 
and buried. Do not forget my teachings, and remain 
faithful to your God and to yourself. 

“It is true that I became an apostate to my faith, but 
you know why, and God knows it too. When the day 
will come on which my penance is at an end, I may per¬ 
haps turn to the mercy of God. I committed a mistake, 
and could not render it undone, Therefore, take heed 


192 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 


of the first step in the wrong path, for it leads to destruc¬ 
tion. 

“Now, bend your head that I may give you my bless¬ 
ing; though it is the blessing of a renegade; God, who 
knows what is passing in my heart, will set it down to 
your account, and fulfill it.” 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE BURIAL. 

Oh the following day, when Father Anselmo went 
down-stairs to speak to the prior in regard to the arrange¬ 
ments for his pupiPs burial, he was not admitted, as he 
had very well foreseen. 

The prior called out, that he would write all directions 
on a piece of paper which he would slip out beneath the 
door. This he accordingly did, and Father Anselmo 
repaired to the village and ordered a coffin, which was 
brought to the convent toward evening. 

On his homeward way Anselmo passed the graveyard 
of the convent, and saw two monks engaged in digging a 
grave; he requested one of them to help him to carry up 
the coffin when it should arrive, and then assist him in 
carrying it down with its mournful burden. 

The monk, leaning on his spade, explained to Father 
Anselmo that the prior had that morning forbidden any 
of the monks to take part in the new convert's funeral, 
in order not to render the danger of infection still greater. 
However, Father Anselmo was at liberty to procure as 
much aid as he needed from the village, and the convent 
would bear the expense. 

Anselmo was satisfied thereat, but exhorted the monks 
to assemble in the chapel toward midnight, and read 
masses for the soul of the dead man. To this the monks 
readily and gladly expressed their acquiescence, and 
Father Anselmo repaired to his cell. 

“Now, my Joseph,” said he, closing the door and bolt¬ 
ing it, “I shall give you the treasure we once spoke of, 
and you shall change your clothes.” 



THE WIDOW'S SON. 


193 


Anselmo took his skeleton apart, unscrewed bone after 
bone, and poured the glittering contents on the table. 
Then he put the skeleton together again, and, after lay¬ 
ing aside several of the least valuable gems, sewed all the 
rest into a leather belt, which he fastened around Joseph’s 
waist under his habit. 

Joseph submitted entirely to his teacher’s directions, 
not even a word of thanks passed his lips; for whenever 
he opened his mouth Anselmo signed him to be silent, 
for fear some eavesdropper might be on the guard. 

When Father Anselmo had done fastening on the belt, 
he pulled forth a complete peasant’s suit from the mattress 
which constituted his bed, and Joseph prepared to invest 
himself with it. An ejaculation of glad surprise escaped 
Anselmo’s lips when he caught sight of the young man in 
this unaccustomed garb. 

The long, loose habit which Joseph had always worn 
since his arrival in the convent had completely concealed 
his fine figure, which was now set off to the best advan¬ 
tage by the closelyfitting peasant’s suit. The little fur 
cap, thrown jauntily on his head, became the young man 
excellently, and he looked the lean ideal of manly beauty. 
As there was no mirror in the room, Father Anselmo told 
Joseph to look at himself in a dish of clear water. The 
image which there met the young man’s view so surprised 
him that he started back in affright. He did not recog¬ 
nize himself. 

Passionately embracing his teacher, Joseph stammered 
forth his thanks, while his tears of joy fell into the gray 
beard of the old man, whose eyes also grew moist. 

“ Oh, Father Anselmo! oh, my dear Eabbi Isaac Mun- 
dolfo, how can I ever, ever prove my gratitude to you?” 
said the young man. 

“ By always walking in the way of the Lord, Joseph: 
by never tiring to do good deeds, by remaining a good 
Jew, and by employing the art I have taught you, that 
noblest art, by means of which you can release men from 
the bonds of illness, for the benefit of all, Jews, Gen- 


194 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


tiles, and the whole human family; further, my dear boy, 
by ever trying to prevent evil and by encouraging good, 
by lending your aid to the poor, by drying the widow’s 
tears and calming the orphan’s cries. My son, I have set 
upon you to work out my expiation. The benefits you 
will perform for mankind may perhaps mitigate my crime 
in the eyes of the Almighty, and He will not set it down 
so heavily to my account, as it is I who have given you 
the skill to heal the sick. God knows I harbored no 
selfish thoughts in imparting my science to you; I did 
not work for a reward; I do not want to be pointed out as 
your master, for my ambition lies buried in the dungeon 
of Rome. 

“ When, in the practice of your profession, two jia- 
tients summon you at the same time, one of them rich 
and willing to compensate you generously, the other poor 
and unable to pay you for your services, hasten first to the 
latter, for it may be that a large family depends upon the 
strength of his arm, while the rich man can procure as 
many physicians as he pleases. 

You will not recognize how far I have advanced in the 
knowledge of medicine, my Joseph, until you will have 
the opportunity of making comparisons. I have disclosed 
to you numberless secrets which are bidden in impene¬ 
trable darkness to the most prominent physicians of our 
century. I have taught you to know poisons that can 
kill a man in a moment of time, and whose existence no 
other living physician suspects. 

“ But apply these poisons only as remedies, only as 
antidotes to other poisons. Be a physician such as I have 
been, as I am. I once committed a great mistake, and I 
bear the punishment of it to the present day. I could 
have saved my mortal enemy, the Pope; the remedy was 
within reach of my hand; I did not do it. This was 
murder, for God did not let me discover this poison in 
order to kill with it, but to apply it for healing purposes. 
I acted against his will; it is true I did not poison, but 
neither did X beak X should have forgotten and for- 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 195 

given; in me, the man, not the physician, had been out¬ 
raged, and science ranks higher than man; it is of god¬ 
like nature. 

“ Should you, my son, ever he similarly situated, spare 
yourself all future stings of conscience by letting the 
physician in you speak, and not the man. Live as I wish 
that I had lived, and you will richly reward me for all I 
have done for you/’ 

When night had set in, and Joseph had lit the lamp. 
Father Anselmo repaired down-stairs to get the coffin 
which had been brought to the convent. With great 
difficulty he prevailed upon a novice to assist him in 
carrying the coffin up to the corridor on which his cell 
lay. Arrived here, the novice was seized with a panic of 
fear, and almost fell down-stairs in his haste to escape. 

Father Anselmo had told the novice that he had suc¬ 
ceeded in finding a peasant who was ignorant of what 
sickness Joseph had died of, and would assist in the 
the latter’s burial. 

When Father Anselmo had dragged the coffin into his 
room, Joseph helped him to screw off the cover. They 
then proceeded to dress the skeleton, which had contained 
the diamonds, in Joseph’s habit, and carefully placed it 
in the coffin. 

“ I brought some stones with me,” said Father An¬ 
selmo; “for I did not know but that the monks might 
be courageous enough to carry the coffin to the grave; 
and in that case I would have been obliged to make it 
heavier. Now, however, this is not necessary.” 

“ Then, Father Anselmo,” said Joseph, “it would not 
be necessary to bury this valuable skeleton. We could 
just as well consign the empty coffin to the earth.” 

“No,” returned Father Anselmo; “in this act I am 
guided by two motives: One is a sort of duty that I owe 
to this skeleton, which once belonged to a human being. 
Although it was denied a resting-place in the earth, it 
served what will seem a nobler purpose to every thinking 
man. But I desecrated it; I made use of this skeleton 


196 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


for profane purposes, and now wish to repair my wrong 
by giving it the rest in the grave it has till now been 
forced to relinquish. My other motive is, to make a dis¬ 
covery of this fictitious burial almost impossible. It is 
often the case that graves are emptied of their contents 
after the lapse of but one decade, and thus it may be 
with this coffin. The discovery of an empty coffin would 
be of evil consequences for me, were I still alive; and were 
I dead, my name, which is reverenced like that of a saint 
in the country round about, would be covered by shame 
and infamy.” 

Joseph did not find fault with his teacher’s anxiety to 
preserve his good name in the community whose religion 
he did not admire, for it is all that clings to a man who 
had once had a glorious future in prospect. “ Better is 
a good name than precious ointment.” (See Ecclesiastes.) 

When the bell of the chapel rang for the midnight 
mass, the two friends waited until all the monks had re¬ 
paired thither, before they shouldered their sad burden. 
Slowly they descended the stone stairs, for it was in truth 
a dead body they bore to the last resting-place it had so 
long been denied. 

Joseph could not refrain from smiling at the comical 
and strange position he indulged in. It was certainly 
somewhat of a novelty that had never occurred before, a 
man to be a mourner at his own funeral, and, so to say, 
carry himself to his own sepulcher. 

Arrived at the cemetery, they lowered the coffin into 
the grave that had been dug for it, and shoveled the earth 
on it until a stately mound marked the place. Then 
Anselmo threw away his spade, and passionately embraced 
Joseph. 

“Farewell, my son,” cried he, “ farewell, and do not 
forget your teacher.” 

The good man’s voice failed him; it was choked by 
tears. 

Joseph with difficulty suppressed his sobs, and em¬ 
braced his teacher again and again, until the latter 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 107 

forced him away and pointed toward the open gate of the 
churchyard, which led to the forest beyond. 

At this moment the sound of the organ in the chapel 
died away, and the moon glided from behind a bank of 
clouds. 

Joseph silently and fervently pressed the old man’s 
hand, waved his cap, and disappeared on the other side 
of the churchyard wall. 

Thoughtfully leaning on his spade, Father Anselmo 
followed him with his eyes. 

“ Thus everything passeth away,” said he to himself, 
“ What difference does it make to me, that I have not 
actually buried Joseph here to-night. It is after all but 
a short delay, to-day or later on. He is lost to me as he 
is to the world who believe him dead and concealed be¬ 
neath this mound. 

“ Yes, yes, Anselmo, you have dreamed a dream again; 
for a few years you had some one to love, some one for 
whom you desired to live; now your hours of penance be¬ 
gin again; you have this night buried your dream—buried 
it with this spade. Hope that it may have been your 
last dream, and that your waking will be a pleasant one.” 

The monks were returning from mass. Their way led 
past the churchyard, and when they beheld Father 
Anselmo standing by the newly made grave, their fear 
subsided, “for what was covered by the earth could not 
be contagious any longer.” Many stepped up to the grave 
and counted off their rosaries for the convert, who shortly 
before his death hastened to become a member of the only 
church of salvation. 

In the meanwhile Joseph briskly stepped up the mount¬ 
ain path, in order to reach the other side before dawn of 
day. He felt like one newly endowed with life; at last 
he was out in the world, at last he was a man dependent 
on his own resources, a man who could enter upon his 
struggle with the world. His breath came freely and 
joyously, he would have shouted out his joy, had not 
thoughts of his dear, now so solitary, teacher restrained 


198 THE WIDOW'S SON. 

him; liis poor teacher, who was now again alone with his 
torn heart; his teacher who bad been more than a father 
to him, and had given him an inheritance on than 
which a royal prince could not have a greater. Still, 
Joseph did not think of his wealth in money, only in so 
far as it would serve his purposes. It w r as the thought of 
the wealth of knowledge stored in his brain and mind, 
and which he had accumulated by untiring zeal and in¬ 
dustry, that made his heart swell with pride and exulta¬ 
tion. Now, when he thought of the eight years, of which 
he had passed many a night depriving himself of sleep in 
order to pick up, grain by grain, the treasures of knowl¬ 
edge; now, when he surveyed the time spent, it seemed 
to him like a few days, and that which, while it lay be¬ 
fore him, had appeared insurmountable, he now thought 
of as having been acquired easily and without exertion. 

Joseph’s thoughts were suddenly checked by the sound 
of footsteps. He quickly sprang to one side and con¬ 
cealed himself behind a tree. The footsteps came nearer, 
and soon the figure of a man emerged into the moonlight. 

“ Heavens!” softly muttered Joseph, as the stranger 
unsuspectingly passed by, “that is Baron Kuno of 
Witzleb. In his hand he has a long white beard, and he 
is carrying the habit of the Dominican friar, whom I have 
so often seen in the convent. Ah, it is always well to 
Know one’s enemy; friend Witzleb, I stand in quite an¬ 
other position toward you than once did little Joseph of 
the Jews’lane!” * 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

AN AGREEABLE RECOGKITIOK. 

We are in the city again, and in front of a neatly 
painted house on Wolf street. The house is decorated 
with a little sign, on which may be seen in black letters: 

“ Madame Agnes, Fortune-teller.” 

At the moment the bell beneath the sign was pulled 
the door would suddenly fly open. This seemingly magi¬ 
cal performance was a great surprise to all comers, 



THE WIDOW’S SON. 


109 


although it was but the work of a little mechanical con¬ 
trivance, and instead of pulling the bell, as the visitor 
believed he did, he pulled open the door. 

This was quite in keeping with the character of the 
place, for it has but meet to be received in an unusual 
and startling manner on the very threshold of a magician. 
Many shuddered and started back in amazement when 
the door was opened for them so suddenly, by the invisi¬ 
ble spirit of Madame Agnes, as they imagined. The door, 
instead of opening into a hall, as is usually the case, led 
into a neatly furnished room, the floor of which was cov¬ 
ered by matting, the walls hung with pictures—some bad 
wood-carvings—mostly mythological subjects and Biblical 
scenes. 

Several old-fashioned chairs were ranged along the 
walls, firmly fastened to the floor. Beside each chair 
there was a kind of knob on the wall, which was gener¬ 
ally considered nothing but decoration. 

Did any one sit down on any of these chairs, he was 

suddenly startled by the call, Mr.-, as the same may 

be, apparently proceeding from the wall close besidp him. 
On turning around, the waiting person saw no one, of 
course, nor could he know that the knob on the wall be¬ 
side him was the outlet of a speaking-tube. 

At the same time, an open door became suddenly vis¬ 
ible, and a voice again invited him to enter. All these 
contrivances had conduced to give Madame Agnes such 
a reputation for skill, that members of the highest aristoc¬ 
racy came to her from time to time, to have their future 
cleared up by her prophetic sight as a seer. 

Madame Agnes knew everybody, called everybody by 
name, whether they were born in the city or came from 
foreign countries. Let us follow one of Madame Agnes* 
visitors, and discover what she knows. 

A deeply veiled lady stepped from her carriage at the 
corner of Wolf street, and ordered her coachman to await 
her there. The lady walked slowly down tho street until 
she arrived at the little house we have described. He ; 1 


200 TEE WIDOW'S SON. 

hand already touched the bell-knob when, suddenly draw¬ 
ing it hack, she pressed it on her heart, and murmured: 

“ What will I hear? Oh, God! what will I hear?” 

The lady turned from the door in an irresolute manner, 
and was about to retrace her way to the carriage, when 
she heard a firm, manly step approaching. Quickly re¬ 
solved, she pulled the hell, 1 he door flew open, and the 
lady was in the anteroom. She turned around to close 
the door, but uttered a faint shriek as she beheld in the 
doorway the figure of a man, whose face was partially 
covered by a black mask. 

“My God!” murmured the lady. “The Black Mask, 
what does he want here?” 

The man with the mask sat down on one of the chairs, 
and silently waved the lady to another. She unhesitat¬ 
ingly obeyed the motion of his hand, and likewise sat 
down on one of the chairs. 

Suddenly a voice resounded close beside her: 

“Countess of Weiden, you are entreated to enter.” 

The lady started in affright, and drew back her heavy 
veil. Secrecy was no longer possible. 

Did the Black Mask desire it, he could now glance into a 
face which, though no longer young, was still indescribably 
beautiful. It was a real madonna face, framed by thick 
golden curls, and the figure which now disappeared be¬ 
hind the opened door was slender and infinitely graceful. 

When the Countess of Weiden entered the room to 
which she had been bidden, she beheld a remarkable, 
strange-looking female figure seated at a table which was 
covered by skulls and all sorts of astrological instruments. 
Long white curls fell from her temples to the table before 
which she sat; her eyes were concealed by green spectacles, 
and a minute little beard quivered on her chin. While 
her head was covered by a turban, the neck of her black 
silk dress was adorned by a wide, lady's collar, reaching 
almost to her shoulders. Her hands were incased in 
black gloves. 

“Welcome, Countess of Weiden; long, long ago my 


201 


THE WIDOW'S SOE. 

prophetic spirit whispered to me that you would return 
from a foreign land; long, long have I waited for your 
coming, for the stars have given me an injunction re¬ 
garding you." 

“ Wise woman," returned the countess, with trembling 
lips, “I come-" 

“ You came to ask about Hugo of Weiden, your first 
and only born." 

“ Yes, even so, Madame Agnes, and as you are so wise 
as to have known me without ever having seen me, I 
hope that-" 

“It is vain to hope, gracious lady; one of us Can simu¬ 
late compassion for a tortured heart; your little boy is 
dead, countess." 

A heart-rending cry escaped the poor lady, and cover¬ 
ing her face with her hands she fell sobbing into a chair. 

The fortune-teller cast a look of derison at the bowed 
form of the sobbing countess; then she said slowly, as if 
each word were a dagger stroke: 

“ The house of Weiden is one accursed; it is dying out 
fast; all glory is departing from it; ere the sun will have 
thrice completed his course the Count of Weiden will be 
a dead man." 

“ Oh, all merciful Father in Heaven!" cried the 
countess. “ Cease, Madame Agnes, cease." 

“ Where there is a wound, there is a remedy," said the 
fortune-teller, in a monotonous voice. 

A ray of hope enlivened the pale face of the countess. 

“ Yes, countess, the stars have told me that a woman 
from the East will come to you, a woman who, though 
she cannot detain the fleeting spirit of the count, can pro¬ 
tect you against the evil that darkly looms up and 
threatens you." 

“ Does misfortune threaten me also?" asked the lady. 

“All who belong to the house of Weiden are doomed.” 

“Oh, my God, my God!" 

“But it is written in the stars that this woman may be 


202 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


your guardian angel, this woman who is coining from the 
East." 

“But where, my God, where shall I find her?" 

“ She will come to you herself, poor and begging hum¬ 
bly for alms. Draw her to your heart. Keep her near 
your person, closely follow her advice, let no stranger 
step between you and her, and your life will be protected, 
the stars will have no power over you." 

“When will this woman come?" asked the countess, 
anxiously. 

“ After three days, six days or nine days, at dusk of 
day." 

“And concerning my child? Have you no comfort to 
give me?" 

“None; the fire that is extinguished, its dead embers 
cannot be fanned to flame again." 

The lady heaved a deep sigh; then, arising, she pressed 
some gold into the fortune-teller’s hand, and quitted the 
room. 

When she entered the anteroom, the man in the mask, 
who had apparently awaited her return, arose and fol¬ 
lowed her to the street; the trembling countess acceler¬ 
ated her steps. 

She was within calling distance of her carriage when 
the Black Mask suddenly stepped before her and barred 
her progress. 

“ Countess," said he, in a melodious voice, “ the 
woman has lied; your child is living; you will see it 
again." 

“Sir, you know?" 

“I know morer than yonder woman, who is an im¬ 
postor; have patience and wait; I myself will restore your 
child to you." * 

“ But, sir, who are you; why this mysterious disguise 
which all in the city know and fear?" 

“None but the wicked need fear me," returned the 
M'ask. 

“ Oh, I know that well; the Black Mask is always men- 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 203 

ttioned with awe, for he does wonders, he keeps even death 
at bay; but he does not show his face, and this renders 
him an object of fear.” 

“Ask those who confided in me if I betrayed their 
trust; ask the sick man tossing on his bed if my mask 
seem not brighter to him than the most beautiful face?” 

“Yes, yes, I know that, your name has justly grown 
famous in a remarkably short time. 

“Why then did you not ask my aid for your husband? 
’Tis now longer than a year that I have resided in this city, 
’tis one-half a year that every one knows me and my 
.reputation.” 

“The count himself despairs of his life; it is old age 
that prostrates him.” 

“ Still you went to yonder impostor for advice, as if 
science was rubbish, and impostors seers.” 

“Pardon me, sir, you are right; but I am so utterly 
alone, and without a friend. Formerly, when the duke 
was stronger, he often invited my husband and .me to 
court, and w T as a good friend to me. But now, I am in¬ 
deed utterly forsaken.” 

The lady’s voice trembled. 

“ Let me be your friend, countess; for to protect you 
is one of the chief aims of my life.” 

“ By what name shall I call you, sir; by what token 
know that you are my friend?” 

“ Call me the Black Mask, as all the world call me, 
and allow me to approach your husband's sick-bed, if but 
for once; then I will give you proof of my friendship.” 

The lady was about to answer, but the Black Mask had 
left her side and entered one of the by-streets. With a 
heart full of conflicting emotions, yet a blessed feeling of 
hope pervading her, the lady entered her carriage, 

W r hen the Countess of Weiden had left the room of the 
fortune-teller, the latter slid back a little panel in the 
wall, and applied her eyes to the opening, She recoiled 
in terror. 


204 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 


“My God! the Black Mask!” she cried, in despair; 
“ how comes he here? Oh, this portends misfortune!” 

She drew a relieved breath as she saw the Black Mask 
leave her house directly after the countess. 

“ That is one who appears to be dabbling in my 
trade,” muttered Madame Agnes, resuming her seat at 
the table. “His name is in every one’s mouth. Well, 
he is welcome to all my customers; I’ll soon have done 
with all this foolery.” She started slightly, for the spring 
that opened the door creaked, and she knew that another 
customer had come. 

She arose quickly in order to look through the spy¬ 
hole at the person who had come to consult her wisdom. 

But the visitor seemed to be in a great hurry, for the 
sibyl had not made a step toward her post of observation, 
when the door flew open, and a somewhat tipsy young 
man burst into the room. 

Madame Agnes drew hack, greatly frightened, for she 
had quite an abhorrence for drunkards. 

“Hallo, old witch!” cried the comer, boisterously, 
“you shall tell me my fortune, for times are had, and 
still one must live. Therefore tell me how much money 
there is in your box, so that we may remain good friends.” 

The woman had fearfully retreated behind a table, and 
groped about under it, apparently looking for something. 

The young man observed this, and darted forward at 
the old woman, striving to get hold of her; but she, with 
a fleetness that belied her years, sped to the wall, and, 
bracing herself against it, pointed a dagger at her as¬ 
sailant. The young man paused for a moment; then, 
suddenly springing forward, he seized the old woman’s 
arm and twisted it so violently that the joints cracked, 
and the weapon fell to the floor. Now a struggle began, 
whose issue could not long remain doubtful; the young 
man wondered at the strength of his antagonist who 
made it so hard for him to gain a victory. In addition to 
this, he was vexed that a woman could resist him so long, 
while her incessant cries for help increased his rage. 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 205 

At last she seemed yielding; but, suddenly gathering 
her strength for a last onslaught, she seized his hair 
with her long* bony fingers. 0, wonder! it remained in 
her hands. The fortune-teller shrieked louder than ever, 
and cried: 

“ Egmont, Egmont, my son, robbing his own mother?” 

The person thus addressed immediately loosened his 
hold, and started back in astonishment, while the fortune¬ 
teller slowly and painfully tottered to a seat. With her 
right hand she tore turban and wig off her head, and 
mother and son confronted each other. 

“Ha, ha!” cried Egmont, “my honored mother, the 
proud Baroness of Weiden, a fortune-teller and a witch!” 

“ Curses on you, ungrateful son that you are! The 
Baron of Weiden has become a robber, has attempted to 
rob his own mother!” shrieked the magician. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

THE OUTLAWS. 

A humber of young men were sitting round a -table 
in the bar-room of the Lamb. The appearance of most 
of them evinced a sort of reduced elegance. Their fine 
attire was quite out of keeping with the tone of their con¬ 
versation, and contrasted glaringly with their unkempt 
locks and neglected beards. 

The tavern of the Lamb by no means merited the 
name it bore, for, instead of lambs, it sheltered wolves, 
who lived on the spoils they unlawfully wrested from their 
fellow-beings. 

The Lamb was generally known in the city as the 
resort of thieves and assembly burglars. When a daring 
burglary was committed, when counterfeit money was 
put into circulation, when any one was stabbed in an affray, 
the police generally went to the Lamb for the male¬ 
factor and misdoer, and were rarely disappointed in their 
search. 

Formerly the tavern had not been so notorious, although 
it was well known that all sorts of suspicious characters 



206 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


congregated there; but since several years the most daring 
and cunningly contrived depredatory excursions issued 
from here, and still none of the rogues could be captured, 
so well was all arranged, so excellently conducted. Al¬ 
though the police were well aware that an organized band 
of robbers held their headquarters at the Lamb, and 
though they often arrested men on suspicion, it could 
never be shown that such a band was actually in exist¬ 
ence. There was a rumor in circulation to the purport 
that it was a young man of twenty-one who had organized 
this band, who planned their burglaries, and reigned like 
a king over the criminals in the city; but the police 
laughed at the nonsense, for they had never forced a con¬ 
fession to this effect from any prisoner, even by means of 
the torture. 

Well, a company of young men sat around the table in 
the bar-room of the Lamb, drinking and talking. 

The subject of their conversation was the Black Mask. 
About a year ago this mysterious person had come to the 
city, bought a house in one of the best streets, and estab¬ 
lished himself as a physician. 

The police allowed his wearing the mask, and it was 
even maintained that the doctor’s sign on the door was 
but a blind, and that the Black Mask was, in fact, a se¬ 
cret agent of f the police—for who else would dare to go 
about in broad daylight with a mask on his face? The 
young men around the table expressed various opinions 
regarding the Black Mask, who was an object of awe to 
these lawless, rascally fellows, who shunned the daylight 
as much as possible. 

“It is said that a fearful mark disfigures the upper 
part of his face, said a tall, lean young man, who was 
called Devil’s Fred by his comrades. “Yes, yes,” he 
continued, as his statement was greeted by derisive laugh¬ 
ter; “for this reason he wears a mask.” 

“Stuff and nonsense!” returned a thick-set youth; 
“ the man is neither more nor less than a detective; that 
is certain.” 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 207 

“But lie practices as a physician, and has effected the 
most wonderful cures,” said Devil's Fred again. 

“What is the use of bothering our heads about a thing 
that doesn't concern us at all?” said the thick-set young 
man—who was known by the nick-napie of Froggy—in a 
stentorian voice. “ My only concern is where our cap¬ 
tain may be. He ought to have been back long ago, and 
that with a full pocket.” 

“ Sandwich,” cried one of the company to the landlord, 
who was lounging lazily behind the bar, “ go and see if 
Trumpcard is coming. He knows there is a meeting here 
to-night, and has only gone on a little business of his 
own. It is now ten o'clock, and he ought to have been 
back for some time.” 

The landlord, a large, corpulent man, muttered some¬ 
thing to himself to the effect that it was all bosh, and 
decent people might be allowed to enjoy a little rest; but 
still he made his way from behind the bar and moved 
toward the door. At this moment the latter was sud¬ 
denly torn open, and a young man with fair hair burst 
into the room. 

“What has happened? What is the■ matter?” re¬ 
sounded from all sides. “Is some one pursuing you? 
Why, you have lost your beard and wig!” 

The new-comer threw himself into a chair, and brought 
down his hands on the table with such force that the 
glasses and tumblers on it clinked dangerously. 

“ Silence!” he thundered, and in a moment the sound 
of a pin falling to the floor could have been distinctly 
heard. 

“ I've had a pretty fright,” said the captain, after tak¬ 
ing a hearty drink from his neighbor's glass. 

“How so?” asked Froggy. “Did they nearly catch 
you?” 

“Ho, no; they cannot catch Trumpcard so easily,” 
returned the fair young man, complacently; “ but 1 have 
seen my mother!” 


m 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 

“ Your mother?” cried Devil's Fred, starting up from 
his chair. 

The others seemed to receive this news quite coolly. 

“ Yes, yes; my mother. I was just about to wring her 
neck a little, when the touching recognition took pla.ce.” 

“ This is very unfortunate; very unfortunate, indeed,” 
returned Devil’s Fred, thoughtfully. 

“ Why, what harm is there in that?” said Froggy; “we 
have all seen our mothers some time or other, and never 
made such a fuss about it.” 

“ Come with me, Devil’s Fred,” said Trumpcard, rising 
and leading the way into a small adjoining room, which 
was furnished only with a few chairs and a worm-eaten 
table. One lamp on the table diffused such a faint light 
that the two could hardly distinguish each other. One 
after the other of those at the table in the bar-room arose, 
stepped into the hall, and there vanished. 

“Listen, Devil’s Fred,” said Trumpcard, when both 
had seated themselves, “ is it not a dreadful meeting, I, 
the Baron Egmont, a ro6ber, attacking the Baroness of 
Weiden, my mother?” 

“Yes, of course, it is not very agreeable; but how did 
you get out of the affair?” 

“ That was easier than you can imagine. Had I met 
my mother as still baroness, in all her former pride 
and haughtiness, the matter would have been much worse; 
but, just think, old Sibyl Agnes in Wolf street is my 
mother; she plays this pretty role in order to support 
herself.” 

“Strange, very strange.” 

“Yes, and a mother always remains a mother; for 
hardly had we done reproaching each other most bitterly, 
when she relented, and insisted on knowing my place of 
residence, as she says she has a great inheritance in 
prospect for me. Yes, she even wants to give up her 
business on account of seeing more particularly to my 
inheritance.” 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


209 


“Nonsense, you are always talking of this inheritance; 
I do not believe you ever will have a copper of it.” 

“Never mind that now. Devil's Fred. Tell me what 
has been going on here since my absence.” 

“ Nothing of consequence, Egmont. That Black Mask 
becomes more and more an object of dread to our band, 
and I myself think that he is here solely on our account. 
Perhaps he has been summoned from England, which is 
famous for its detectives.” 

“ Don't be fools,” returned Egmont, the captain, pee¬ 
vishly. “I have never encountered him, but I desire 
nothing more than a little combat with him.” 

“ Oh, you are always bragging, Egmont,” returned 
Devil's Fred, “and you have not courage enough to assist 
at a burglary; at most you attack an old woman, who 
proves to be your mother.” 

Devil's Fred did not notice the evil glance Egmont cast 
at him; but the latter controlled himself, and said: 

“ Did you thrive so well ere I took command of the 
band? Did ever such faithfulness exist among you as 
since 1 am captain? What is the use of mechanically 
performed work without a scheme? I am the nlaster; it 
is but just that the execution of my plans devolves upon 
you! But come, I suppose they are all assembled by this 
time, let us descend.” 

Egmont rose and left the room, followed by Devil's 
Fred. 

On entering the bar-room, they beheld a little boy, 
with a basket of hot rolls which he was offering for sale. 
The boy was about ten years old, and his fair curls and 
straight features seemed to mark him of Christian de¬ 
scent, which, however, was contradicted by the jargon he 
spoke. Egmont, who naturally took the boy to be a Jew, 
could not refrain from pinching his ear. The boy with 
tears in his eyes, entreated the gentleman to let him 
alone, but this only incited Egmont to continue his 
cruelty, while lie repeatedly cried: 

“Jew, Jew.” 


210 THE WIDOW'S SON. 

Had Joseph Bonafit been present, he would have im¬ 
mediately known Trumpcard to be none other than Baron 
Egmont, by the way in which he pronounced this taunt. 

The boy, when he perceived that his entreaties were 
fruitless, was overcome by rage, and trod on his persecu¬ 
tor's toes with his little feet, which were covered by 
heavily nailed shoes. 

Egmont released the boy's ear and gave the poor child 
such a blow that he fell down senseless, while his rolls 
were scattered all over the floor. Egmont raised his foot 
to give the child another blow, but was restrained by 
Devil's Fred, who said: 

“l think you have killed the child. Let us take him 
down-stairs. If he does not regain his senses WO will 
bury him there." 

“ You, or that fat, lazy landlord may carry the child; 
I shall not soil my hands by touching the dirty Jewish 
rascal." 

But Trumpcard suddenly stopped speaking, and grew 
dreadfully pale; his knees tottered, and his eyes seemed 
bursting from their sockets. Before him, as if suddenly 
risen from the ground, stood the Black Mask. Devil's 
Ered had also seen him, and escaped to the hall, where he 
vanished, as the rest had done before him. The eyes 
under the mask burned like glowing coals into the face 
of the youthful criminal. 

“ Egmont of Weiden," said the Black Mask, in a so¬ 
norous voice; “ I know you. For the manner in which 
you treated the child, take this, and this." 

The Black Mask gave the cowardly rogue two blows on 
the head, and leaving him standing like one petrified by 
terror, went to the bar, where, however, he saw no one, 
as the landlord had fled at the sight of the Black Mask. 

He then picked up the lifeless child, wrapped him in 
his cloak, and left the inn. 

Egmont remained motionless for a long time. He did 
not venture to look up, and it was not until Devil's Fred 
came to remind him, that he remembered the band were 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


211 


waiting for him down-stairs. Both stepped into the hall, 
pressed a knob, and the trap on which they stood slowly 
descended with them to the depths. They arrived in a 
brilliantly lighted vault, and as soon as they stepped from 
the trap it ascended with the rapidity of lightning. 

The vault was of considerable extent, and resembled the 
magazine of some wealthy merchant. While bales and 
bales of goods were heaped up in one corner of the store¬ 
room, the other was occupied by a glass case containing the 
most valuable jewels. New and old weapons hung from the 
ceiling and on the walls, next to valuable paintings worth 
thousands of dollars. Edibles in abundance filled a safe 
which stood in a corner, while there was no lack of bottles 
of the rarest wine. 

The vault was divided into two parts by a heavy velvet 
curtain, which perhaps once decorated the saloon of a 
wealthy prince. 

When Egmont and Devil’s Fred touched the bottom of 
the vault, they heard the sound of beating hammers and 
a peculiar hissing noise from beyond the curtain. The 
two entered the other part of the vault. Here two men 
stood at a small forge and melted metal, while three 
others were engaged in stamping it. Coins were heaped 
up on the floor in such profusion as if they were not of 
the least value. On benches ranged along the walls ten or 
twelve men were lazily lying smoking and talking. At a 
low whistle from Egmont the men ceased working, and 
all stepped into that part of the vault in front of the cur¬ 
tain. Here they seated themselves on the bales of goods 
and boxes which nearly filled up every space. Egmont 
and Devil’s Fred remained standing. 

“ Comrades,” began Egmont, “ who of you know the 
Black Mask?” 

“I, I,” cried various voices. 

“ Comrades,” cried Egmont, “the Black Mask must 
die.” 

A death-like silence ensued. 



THE WIDOW’S SON. 


3W 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

A CONSPIRACY. 

“ Do you hear?” cried Egmont,“ the Black Mask must 
die!” 

Still all remained silent. 

“It almost seems as if you were afraid,” continued Eg- 
mont. 

“ Yes, that is just it,” one of them ventured to say. 

“Why, do you know who the Black Mask is?” asked 
Egmont. 

“ I think he is the evil one himself,” answered Froggy. 

“Miserable cowards,” cried Egmont, “the Black Mask 
is neither more nor less than a secret agent of the police, 
and if you will not put an end to him, he will do it to 
you.” 

“We do not believe that,” returned one of them; “it 
is true that he is a mysterious personage, hut he is very 
kind to poor people, and a police agent is not generally 
so.” 

“ Besides,” remarked another, “ he can do most mar¬ 
velous things. I do believe that he can make an ampu¬ 
tated limb grow to the body again.” 

Egmont hurst into a scornful laugh. 

“ You ought not to laugh, Trumpcard,” broke in 
DeviPs Fred; “do you know that he, like the Prophet 
Elijah, recalled to life the child of our comrade. Red 
John, after it had been dead two days, and was just about 
to he buried?” 

“Nonsense!” cried Egmont, contemptuously; “ nursery 
tales!” 

“No, it is not a nursery tale. Just let me tell it to 
you. The child of Red John was suddenly seized by con¬ 
vulsions and died. No one, unless he was present at the 
time, can imagine how sorely the mother lamented her 
bright and blooming child’s death. When the little 
corpse was placed in the coffin, the mother’s grief for her 
son burst all bounds. Her shrieks could be heard three 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 213 

blocks off. Now the door was suddenly opened, and a 
man, the upper part of whose face was covered by a black 
mask, entered the room. All fell back in astonishment, 
even the bereaved mother momentarily forgot her grief; 
for at that time the Black Mask was still a stranger in 
the city. The Black Mask silently approached the little 
coffin, and attentively regarded the corpse. Suddenly he 
started and placed his hand on the body; then, turning 
around, he entreated all present to leave the room. His 
words remaining unheeded, he repeated his request in a 
loud, commanding voice, and all, even the mother left 
the room in great consternation. After the lapse of 
about ten minutes the Black Mask stepped into the hall 
and said to the mother, who was anxiously waiting there: 

“ ‘Go in, my good woman, your child lives/ 

“ And so it was, the child lived, and is alive this day.” 

“ Yes, yes. Red John himself has told us this hundreds 
of times,” cried all. 

Egmont was very much crest-fallen; he had often heard 
of the wonderful, nay, miraculous cures made by the 
Black Mask, and, even before his encounter with the 
latter to-day, he entertained considerable awe for him. 
This awe was now greatly augmented, and being too 
fearful to attack him, he had wished to delegate this to 
his band; here, as we have seen, he met with an opposi¬ 
tion, founded on fear. 

The wonderful tale which Devil's Fred had just related 
only served to deject Egmont still more; for he, like the 
rest, ascribed the Black Mask's art to a supernatural source, 
and did not for one moment entertain the thought that 
the child had only been apparently dead. On the whole, 
the robbers did not have any cause to fear the Black 
Mask, for he had never laid any obstacles in their way. 
But the chastisement Egmont had that day received from 
that mysterious person, and the fact that the latter knew 
his name, which was unknown to all the band, with the 
single exception of Devil's Fred, seemed reasons enough 
for wishing him out of the way. Besides, the dread with 


214 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


which he inspired all who knew themselves not guiltless, 
was certainly no unimportant incentive. 

“I shall pay,” said Egmont, venturing upon a last at¬ 
tempt, “richly pay the one who will drive a knife into 
the impertinent rascal’s heart.” 

“I believe you,” cried Froggy, “but he is charmed; 
the knife would break like glass.” 

“Very well,” said Egmont, convinced that he could 
not move any of his comrades to the venture, “ then, for 
once in my life, I shall screw up my courage, and take 
charge of this matter myself.” 

The peal of a bell sounded from the wall. All listened 
in suspense. Egmont made a sign, and in a moment the 
lights were subdued by a large screen which was lowered 
from the ceiling of the vault. Simultaneously there was 
a sound of creaking and rustling, as when a clock is 
wound up. 

“Who’s there?” cried out Egmont. 

“ The Black Dog, with a new comrade,” was the an¬ 
swer. 

“ Does the Black Dog know the password?” 

“His hand against all, and all hands against him,” 
came the answer. 

“ Can the Black Dog answer for the new comrade?” 
was now questioned. 

“ He can answer for him with his life; the new comrade 
was once his master.” 

“Well, then, he is welcome. In what profession was 
he the Black Dog’s master?” 

“ He encroached upon the duke’s rights, and took the 
liberty of stamping his own coins.” m 

“Draw your swords, and raise the screen,” cried Eg¬ 
mont; “ if it proves to be an impostor, stab him, and do 
your work well.” 

The screen was raised, and a cry of astonishment and 
pleasure escaped from most of those present. 

“ Master Heberline, Master Heberline,” resounded 
from all sides, and each hastened to shake hands with the. 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 2l5 

stranger, who was standing beside a dark-bearded, dissi¬ 
pated-looking man. 

“I knew you would be pleased to see your old master 
once more,” cried the Black Dog; “it is a long time 
since he forsook us. But, where is our captain, that he 
may greet this old hero of our profession?” 

But Egmont, the captain, was nowhere to be seen. 
Devil’s Fred hurriedly made his way behind the curtain, 
and found Egmont crouching behind a bench, and mak¬ 
ing signals to him not to betray him. Egmont’s situa¬ 
tion was so comical, that Devil’s Ered burst into a loud 
peal of laughter. The sound attracted all the company 
to the spot. 

“The devil!” cried Master Heberline, throwing a look 
under the bench, “ whom have we here?” 

Unobserved by the others, Egmont placed his finger 
on his lips. 

Heberline immediately understood him, and remained 
silent, although his face wore an expression of the most 
intense astonishment. , 

“ This is our captain,” cried Devil’s Fred and the 
Black Dog; “he is a. little nervous, but confoundedly 
cunning, and has such talent for organizing a company, 
and keeping a state in order, that he deserves to be a 
duke.” 

“ Either God or The devil suggested this thought to 
you,” muttered Heberline; then he signed to Egmont to 
come forth, which the latter accordingly did. 

“Why did he steal away and hide here?” asked some. 

“I by no means hid myself,” cried Egmont, his face 
distorted with rage, “I wished to surprise Master Heber¬ 
line, whom I knew long ago.” 

“Yes, that is so,” said the latter; “and as proof of 
this, I entreat you, comrades, to leave us here, as we 
have much to say to each other after such a long separa¬ 
tion. Go up-stairs, drink and eat as much as you please; 
I’ll pay the bill.” 

When the two were alone, Heberline began: 


216 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


“ So it is here, and in such company, that I find you 
again! Truly you do honor to your name; you have de¬ 
veloped into what you promised to be when a boy.” 

“At least I am no worse than my uncle, Kuno of 
Witzleb,” returned Egmont, sullenly. 

“ Had you had but a drop in your veins of the blood 
of that Jewish boy, who, without any intention on his 
part, caused your removal to the city, you could have re¬ 
stored the degenerated family of Witzleb to their former 
pride and honor.” 

“Accursed be that Jew!” cried Egmont, furiously. 
“ He alone is the cause of all my misfortunes. I have 
been looking for him all these years. I have no stronger 
desire than to lay my hands on him and deprive him of 
the breath of life.” 

“Do not excite yourself, nephew, do not,” returned 
Witzleb—for it was he, as the reader has no doubt already 
divined. “ He has long since escaped you forever, by 
paying the debt of nature, for he is dead and buried S' 

“ I do not believe it, uncle!” 

“You may believe me; I myself stood at his grave. 
But as to what regards your idea that he was the cause of 
all your misfortunes, I must contradict you, and defend 
him from your imputation. The only one to blame is 
your mother. She it was who, by her way of bringing 
you up, made you what you are—a robber, and perhaps 
even a murderer.” 

“ Uncle, you are the most remarkable man I ever came 
across. While you yourself have been acknowledged a 
master-hand in this very profession, you take it upon 
yourself to moralize to me about it.” 

“ My will was always good, my dear nephew, but my 
character was weak and not trained to firmness. When 
I committed my first error, I was left to myself and all 
the pangs of remorse. To deaden these, I sinned more 
and more; and you see before you what has become of 
the man who bears a name which once made kings and 
princes tremble. I once hoped to keep my manner of 


THE WIDOW’S SON, 217 

life a secret to my family, and especially to yourself. Had 
you restored its pristine honor to our name, I would, per¬ 
haps, for your sake, have attempted to tread in the path 
of the righteous again. However, neither you nor your 
mother did aught to make me wish to become a better 
man. But where is my amiable sister at present?” 

“ Do not speak of her,” returned Egmont “ She did 
not do much toward upholding the family honor, either.* 

A pause ensued; Suddenly Witzleb peevishly shook 
his head, as if desirous to drive away all unpleasant mem¬ 
ories, and said: 

“ On the whole, you have grown to be quite a passable 
young man, and, if you have the stuff for it in your head, 
may yet become a person of consequence.” 

“ Uncle Kuno, if you wish me to execute some project 
which requires skill and cunning, I am the man for you,” 
said Egmont, with great self-sufficiency. 

“I should have preferred to hear you say, were you 
asked to execute some project which requires courage and 
daring, you are the man for it,” returned Witzleb, sternly. 

“ Uncle Kuno,” cried Egmont, angrily, “ do not moral¬ 
ize—it does not become you. An owl is never more ri¬ 
diculous than when mocking at other birds. Nor am I 
a boy any more, whom you can ill-treat as you once did. 
A hundred arms are mine at command, and if I so desire 
it, they will murder even the duke for me.” 

A look of hate and envy crept into Witzleb’s eyes. He 
ground his teeth, and muttered: “Miserable reptile as 
you were, you are, and had I notsuch need of you I would 
soon put you out of the way.” But aloud he said: 

“ Speaking of the duke reminds me that you have 
much cause to love him/ 

“ Curse on him! I should have liked to revenge my¬ 
self on him long ago, but I have never rightly known in 
what manner.” 

“Promise me that you will follow my advice, and your 
revenge on the duke shall not only be most satisfactory. 


218 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


but you will at tlie same time gain a position higher than 
any yon can ever have dreamed of.” 

“ A high position on the gallows, I suppose,” returned 
Egmont, contemptuously. 

“Foolish boy! do I not know what I speakf Oi course 
there is some danger in the undertaking, but it is very 
well worth the trouble of trying; and if it succeeds, you 
and I are made men for life.” 

“ Well, let me hear your plan.” 

“Not so fast, my son; you must promise to accept my 
conditions ere I proceed.” 

“ I do not surrender myself to the enemy with pinioned 
hands.” 

“Impertinent fellow! would I confide in you if I were 
your enemy?” 

“ You know, dear uncle, that the members of our fam¬ 
ily have not much confidence in each other.” 

“That is true; but just trust me this once—you will 
not repent it,” entreated Witzleb. 

“No; I have already told you that I am no longer a 
child. First, you must tell me your plan, then I shall 
know if I can accept your conditions.” 

Witzleb reflected awhile, then he said: 

“Very well, I agree.” 

Bending down, he whispered some words into the young 
man’s ear. The latter started in surprise. 

“That is impossible, uncle,” said he, “ clearly impos¬ 
sible, and may cost us both our heads.” 

“Coward! Supposing they convict you as a counter¬ 
feiter and the leader of a band of thieves, think you they 
will feed you on sweets?” asked Witzleb, contemptu¬ 
ously. 

“ That is something else; they cannot catch me so 
easily.” 

“But what has your profession profited you thus far? 
You have to encounter danger day by day, and your gains 
are but trifling. Rely entirely on me, my arrangements 
are made in a manner which makes failure impossible. 


219 


THE WIDOW'S SOtf. 

Submit to my direction, and you will conquer. Here is 
my hand, give me yours.” 

“ But both you and I are known at court,” hesitatingly 
said Egmont, already half convinced. 

“My whole life has been a masquerade,” said Witzleb, 
“I will so disguise myself and you that your own mother 
would not recognize you. Iz it a bargain, my son?” 

Egmont hesitatingly put his hand into that of his uncle, 
and the compact between these two corrupted souls was 
sealed. 

“Now, the first thing for you to do is to leave your 
comrades in such a manner that they will be quite unsus¬ 
picious of yon. Then repair to an adjoining province, 
where I will meet you, and we will make our arrangements. 
Among other things, you must not forget to engage 
servants who do not know you.” 

“But what of my comrades?” asked Egmont, “per¬ 
haps they will recognize me.” 

“Leave all that to me;” Witzleb again bent down to 
Egmont’s ear: “We shall denounce them; in barely two 
months they will all be hung.” 

Not one emotion of pity for the band that had been so 
faithful to him, and even trusted him with the leader¬ 
ship, agitated Egmont’s breast. Quite the contrary; he 
nodded acquiescence. 

“Yet another question, uncle; what brought you 
hither ?” 

“I will tell you. In the anticipation of finding a suit¬ 
able man for my project, I bought and furnished a house. 
But I did not find such a man, and my finances being at 
a low ebb, I concluded to sell the house. On coming 
from the auctioneer, I accidentally met the Black Dog, 
who had once been one of my company. He brought me 
hither in order to appoint me leader of this band, as the 
men had grown tired of you.” 

Witzleb narrowly observed his nephew’s face as he 
uttered these last words. 

“ By Heaven! the whole band shall be strung up; give 


220 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


me your hand, uncle, I shall go with you/* said Egmont, 
livid with rage. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

STRANGERS IN THE CITY. 

One of the houses on Duke street, which was one of 
the most fashionable thoroughfares in the city, had long 
been uninhabited. As those who resided in this street 
were-mostly of the aristocracy, and possessed the houses 
they dwelled in, and as strangers rarely came to the city, 
it was no wonder that when a house once became vacant 
it remained so for some time. 

The neighbors had long been accustomed to seeing the 
shutters up and the grass growing luxuriantly from the 
cracks in the stone steps of the deserted house. 

One morning—the worthy neighbors hardly trusted 
their eyes—the shutters were all down, the door, so long 
closed, stood wide open, and a number of workmen and 
charwomen hustled about in the house. 

The upholsterers came and furnished the house most 
beautifully, a man from the coachmaker*s came with two 
carriages and put them in the spacious stables; all was in 
readiness, but the occupant wanting. 

But however longingly he was expected by the gossip¬ 
ing neighbors, he stayed away to try their patience. 

At last their curiosity was to be satisfied; but in quite 
an unexpected manner. Large bills were posted all over 
the house, stating that all the costly furniture and the 
contents of the house were to be sold at auction on a cer¬ 
tain day. That must be an eccentric man indeed, wh 0 
spent thousands on a house and its furniture, only to sell 
it at auction. It was an unheard-of thing. 

On the day appointed for the auction, all the rooms in 
the house were filled by inquisitive people. The very stairs 
were crowded, and mostly by the aristocratie people Who 
resided in the neighborhood, and who curiously inspected 
the costly objects with which the house was crammed. 



THE WIDOW'S SON. 221 

The arrival of the auctioneer was anxiously expected. 
He came and mounted the table; but it seemed as if the 
neighbors were doomed to be again disappointed; for 
hardly had the auctioneer attracted their attention, when 
a peremptory “ Stop ” was called out to him. A hunch¬ 
backed man, hobbling along by means of a stick, made his 
way through the crowd, to the table of the . auctioneer. 
Arrived there, he doffed his three-cornered hat, and wiped 
the perspiration from his brow. His face could now be 
plainly seen. Long and straight black hair fell to his 
shoulders, framing a face of a copper color, such as had 
never before been seen on a human countenance in the 
city. The stranger’s dress was also very remarkable. 
Instead of a coat, he had a large piece of cloth slung about 
his shoulders, and fastened around his waist by a girdle 
studded by pearls. 

The small clothes which were visible beneath this piece 
of cloth were fashioned of yellow leather, and decorated 
with fringe at the sides. On his feet the stranger had 
cloth shoes embroidered with beads. 

This foreign-looking individual signed to the auction¬ 
eer to descend from his elevated post, and, turning 
around, addressed the bystanders in a foreign accent, 
often mingling in strange words, which none present 
understood: 

“ I am greatly pleased to see such a numerous company 
here, but I have changed my mind about selling the 
house. A young friend of mine, whom I believed to have 
been shipwrecked, has, to my great joy, returned in 
safety, and he shall dwell herewith me. I shall be greatly 
honored if you will favor me with a visit at some more 
appropriate time, and I assure you that I shall not be 
lacking in such hospitality toward you as is customary 
among my people in the far West.” 

“ Ah, the hunchback is an Indian!” was whispered 
here and there, and the stranger was regarded even more 
attentively than before. But these people knew what 
was proper to do, and on being so plainly dismissed by 


222 THE WIDOW'S SOXt 

the hunchback, hastened to leave the house. Many gave 
their cards to the red man, and the latter expressed his 
regret that he was not able to return the compliment, but 
added that his ward, who was better versed in the ways 
of fashionable life than he, would strive to make up for 
all his shortcomings. In a very few minutes the house 
was deserted, and the auctioneer dismissed. 

About two hours subsequent to this event, a richly 
dressed young man, accompanied by five servants in liv¬ 
ery, all on horseback, appeared at the end of the street. 
Arrived at the above-mentioned house, the cavalcade 
came to a halt; ere any of the servants had time to dis¬ 
mount, the door was opened, and the hunchbacked 
Indian hobbled out as fast as he could, knelt down, and 
lowered his head; the young man swung himself from his 
saddle, and allowed his foot to rest for a second on the 
back of the Indian. 

With humbly lowered head, the latter extended his 
hand, and was about to lead the young man into the 
house, when both started back in terror, and the young 
man began to tremble so violently that he was obliged to 
lean on his horse for support. A man, the upper part of 
whose face was covered by a black mask, had passed be¬ 
tween them. He did not seem to notice their terror, and 
passed quietly on: however, when he had walked some 
little way, he turned around, and carefully regarded the 
house before which the cavalcade had halted. The In¬ 
dian and his young master had partially recovered from 
their terror; but, forgetful of all etiquette, they took hold 
of each other’s hands, and, like frightened children, 
crept slowly up-stairs, and disappeared behind the door, 
which they closed and locked. The Black Mask ap¬ 
proached the servants, who were engaged in unsaddling 
the horses, and, in a melodious voice, inquired about the 
rank of the two strangers; however, he received the same 
evasive answers that all previous inquiries had gained. 

Dubiously shaking his head, the Black Mask passed on 
to a carriage which was waiting for him at the corner of 


223 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 

the street. The coachman, reining in two splendid horses, 
in gold trappings, who were impatiently pawing the 
ground, sprang from the box and opened the carriage 
door for his master. 

The Black Mask entered the carriage, the servant shut 
the door, and the vehicle set off at full speed. It rolled 
through squares and streets, through the Jew's quarter— 
where the Black Mask looked out of the windows and 
regarded everything with interest—and through the gate 
of the city, out into the country. To the right and left, 
the road was studded with beautiful villas, standing in 
miniature parks. At the gate of one of these villas, the 
coachman stopped his horses. The porter sprang from 
his lodge, opened the gate wide, and the carriage rolled 
up the path, which was bordered on each side by acacias. 
The coachman reined in his horses at the door of a 
charming little villa, almost hidden by clambering vines, 
leaped from his box, lifted the knocker, which was in the 
shape of a lion's head, and let it fall thrice against the 
door. The door was opened, and the coachman handed 
in a card. 

About two minutes afterward, a lady appeared at the 
door. She was preceded by a servant in livery, who 
hastened to the carriage and assisted the Black Mask to 
alight. The latter approached the lady, and gallantly 
pressed a kiss on her hand. 

“Welcome, doctor!" said the lady, evidently greatly 
pleased. “ I have expected you for a long time past." 

The Black Mask excused himself by saying that the 
very cold consent the lady had given to his request on the 
evening he had accompanied her to her carriage, had 
restrained his desire to come. During this conversation, 
they had entered the drawing-room, and the lady invited 
her visitor to a seat on the sofa beside her. If the reader 
has not already divined that the Black Mask is in the 
house of the Countess of Weiden, the question which he 
now puts to the lady about her husband, the Count of 
Weiden's, health will enlighten him as to the fact. 


224 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


“ Oh, sir,” returned the Countess, drying her tears, 
my husband is in a very precarious condition; the phy¬ 
sicians despair of his life!” 

“ Countess, you would render me happy did you allow 
me to see your husband, if but for a moment.” 

“It is my most heart-felt wish that you should see him, 
sir. If your wonderful skill, of which the whole city 
speaks, does not rescue my husband I shall soon be a 
widow.” 

“ Be comforted, countess; as long as there is life, there 
is hope. Conduct me to your husband.” 

Both arose, und the lady led the way to her husband’s 
apartment. Here the windows were so heavily draped 
that the doctor could not even distinguish the sick man’s 
bed. He approached the window, and the next moment 
the rays of the evening sun illuminated the room to its 
furthesfccorners. 

On a luxurious bed sat a middle-aged woman apparently 
of the peasant class. Hardly had the Black Mask allowed 
the sunlight admission, when she uttered a low cry, and 
hastily left the room. 

“ Who is this gentleman?” asked the count, in a faint 
voice. 

“Who is that woman?” returned the Black Mask. 

u This gentleman,” said the countess, turning to her 
husband, “is a physician, who, during his short sojourn 
in this city, has gained great fame for his skill.” 

“ Why are you masked? Since when does science wear 
a mask?” psked the count, in a querulous tone, and ^vith 
all the arrogance peculiar to his class. 

“Since time immemorial, science, and particularly of 
medicine, has worn a mask. Is not the recipe couched 
in language unintelligible to the layman? Were science 
shown in its actual form many would recoil in shudder¬ 
ing horror.” 

“What is your name, sir?” asked the count, in a per¬ 
emptory tone. 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


225 


“ I am called the Black Mask/* returned the doctor, 
attentively regarding the sick man’s face. 

“ Can you give me health?’* asked the count, in a voice 
full of ridicule and incredulity. 

“ Heavens,** cried the countess, “ you insult constantly 
the physician; that is not right, my husband.** 

“ Perhaps not; but I should like to see the face of 
the man who comes to treat me/* returned the count, 
moodily. 

The Black Mask quietly sat down beside the sick man’s 
bed and said. 

“ Imagine that the part of my face which I have cov¬ 
ered is of such dreadful aspect as to terrify to death any 
one who sees it. Will that content you?” 

“ That is quite another matter/* muttered the sick 
man, “but permit me another question. What is the 
motive in bestowing such marked attention?** 

“ Count, all your words are insulting, but it is my duty 
not to notice this. You do not know me, yet still I have 
made it the task of my life to find and restore to you your 
heir.” 

The countess, uttering a low cry, sank into a chair, 
while the count endeavored to raise himself in bed, but 
with many a groan was obliged to relinquish the at¬ 
tempt. 

“But, sir, who are you that interest yourself for a 
totally strange family?** asked the count. 

“I am the Black Mask; more I cannot tell you. Did 
not an oath bind me to secrecy, I would enlighten you as 
to the motives that guide me. But believe me that I 
already have a clew to the whereabouts of your heir.” 

“ These are but empty words. My wife brought me the 
tidings that our son is dead. A famous fortune-teller 
told her so.” 

“And after this my mask is still in your way?” asked 
the Black Mask, in a slightly scornful tone; “ you hesi¬ 
tate at being treated by a man in disguise, after giving 
full credence to the words of a vile impostor?” 


226 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 


“ But the woman whom you call an impostor,” re¬ 
turned the count, angrily, “not only told my wife all 
that had happened to her in the past, but prophesied 
something which has literally come true.” 

“And what is that?” asked the Black Mask, curiously. 

“ She said that a woman from the East would come to 
us and ask for shelter, and advised us to take the woman 
into our house; for only she could keep off a misfortune 
which hangs threateningly over the heads of those of the 
house of Weiden.” 

“ And did this woman come?” 

“ She came after three days, as the sibyl had foretold. 
She speaks a strange language, and since she has taken 
up the position by my bed I feel much better.” 

“This is all very well, count, but, as you value your 
life, take no medicine from this woman; accept only 
what your wife hands to you; let her only be your nurse.” 

Full of astonishment, the count looked at the Black 
Mask. The old distrust expressed itself once more on his 
countenance, and he said: 

“But, my dear sir, supposing I do not follow the 
advice you so generously give me?” 

“Then you will never see your son again, count,” 
briefly returned the Black Mask. 

“ And why not, sir? Your statements are contradic¬ 
tory,” returned the count, in such a contemptuous tone of 
voice that the uncovered part of the Black Mask’s face 
could be plainly seen to flush angrily. 

He arose quickly and said: 

“ Because in that case the family vault of the Weidens 
will have opened to receive the last of that illustrious 
name ere the heir has been recovered.” 

A few minutes later the Black Mask’s carriage bore him 
away from the house in which Fate, in the guise of the 
woman from the East, sat beside the dying count's bed, 


THE WIDOW'S SOH. 


m 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

A MYSTERIOUS TRIO. 

Ik the Ghetto a splendid carriage had been observed as 
it rolled swiftly past. It rarely happened that such a 
grand turn-out passed through the Ghetto, but the owner 
of this carriage seemed to have a particular predilection 
for the Jews’ quarter, and whenever he had occasion to 
leave the city he chose this road, always looking out of 
the window and narrowly regarding the ruinous houses 
and their inmates. Thus the Jews had had several op¬ 
portunities to see the Black Mask, of whom so much was 
spoken in the city. However, far from being honored by 
this attention, the Jews disliked seeing the Black Mask’s 
carriage in their part of the city. They knew that he 
was a great physician, but the fact that he concealed his 
face rendered them uneasy; for the poor, persecuted Jews 
scented a conspiracy against themselves in everything un¬ 
usual, and very much feared that the Black Mask’s pre¬ 
dilection for the Ghetto portended a misfortune for them. 
Pinkus, the one-time president of the congregation, had 
stood at his door when the carriage rolled past, and was 
oppressed by thoughts similar to the above. The curios¬ 
ity in regard to his neighbor’s house, which had once 
caused so much unhappiness, troubled him no more; in¬ 
deed, the house excited no one’s curiosity, for it had been 
deserted this many a year. Doors aud windows were 
closed and barricaded, and the house daily assumed a 
more ruinous appearance. Pinkus made a long face; 
something evidently troubled him, for it usually wore a 
very contented expression. This was doubtless observed 
by Sexton Wolf, who came up to Pinkus just as the car¬ 
riage dashed past. Rubbing the sleeve of his calico 
jacket across his face, which action contributed not a little 
to increasing the shining appearance of said sleeve, he 
said to Pinkus: 

“Well, Mr. Pinkus, what is the cause of your trouble? 
Has the carriage anything to do with it?” 


228 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


“Partly, Wolf, partly. I was just thinking that we 
Jews are never left in peace. As soon as one Gezerah has 
passed another looms up. Suppose the man who left the 
Christian child in our care should turn up again. It is 
very probable, and then we would be ruined.” 

“You must not let that trouble you, Mr. Pinkus. God 
knows whether his ashes are not dispersed by the four 
winds of heaven. No one has seen him this many a long 
year.” 

“Yes, but the child causes me much anxiety.” 

“Have you heard nothing of him yet, Mr. Pinkus?” 

“No, nothing; since that remarkable evening he has 
entirely disappeared.” 

“ Don’t take it in ill part, Mr. Pinkus, but indeed it 
was not right of you to send the child a-peddling with 
rolls ” 

“What was I to do? The boy is over nine years old, 
an age at which Jewish children are always set to work, 
and it would have been a shame to let him live on the 
charity of the congregation any longer. Moreover, the 
plan did not originate with me, the president desired it.” 

“ Yes, yes, Mr. Pinkus/ said the sexton, in an impor¬ 
tant tone of voice, “ if all could be of one thought. Times 
were different when you were president.” 

Pinkus was about to answer, when the sexton, with the 
cry, “ Shema Israel /” recoiled in terror, and ran down 
the street as fast as his legs could carry him. Pinkus 
did not long remain in doubt as to the cause of the sexton’s 
panic; but he lost all power to cry as well as to move. 

Before him, as if arisen from the ground, stood a tall 
man attired in black, the upper part of his face covered 
by a black velvet mask. The mysterious figure signed to 
Pinkus to enter the house, and pushed him into the room, 
where the poor man, more dead than alive, fell on a chair, 
while the Black Mask remained standing before him. 

“ Well, Pinkus, my friend, how does the little boy who 
was confided to your care some years ago?” said he. 

Pinkus shook from head to foot, opened and shut his 


229 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 

quivering lips, and at last ejaculated, in a hardly audible 
voice* 

“Thanks for the inquiry, but I know of no child, the 
worthy gentleman has intrusted to me.” 

The Black Mask started; then he seemed to recollect 
something, and said in almost a friendly tone: 

“ Consider, my good Pinkus, consider. You may trust 
me. Tell me, what has become of the little boy?” 

“I do not know anything of a little boy,” sighed 
Pinkus. “I never knew anything about a little boy.” 

“ Perhaps my mask confuses you. Do not let it disturb 
you; you may trust me. I am the same man who de¬ 
livered the child to your care. As proof of this, I will 
confide to you that I charged a certain Master Heberline 
to collect the money for me, which was not given by the 
Jews till after the lapse of some time.” 

“I can remember nothing,” stammered Pinkus, with 
a stubbornness born of despair. “ I do not even remem¬ 
ber such a name as Heberline.” 

The Black Mask stamped his feet impatiently, and 
cried In a voice which made Pinkus quake: 

“ You lie, Jew, and you know it. But your lies are of 
no avail; 1 have plenty of witnesses. Quick, show me 
the little boy, else your last hour is come. It is not ad¬ 
visable to do away with a Christian child, which has been 
received before a number of witnesses.” 

With these words the Black Mask drew a dagger from 
his breast, and seizing Pinkus by the throat, he aimed it 
at his heart. A groan from the tortured man was all the 
answer the Black Mask received. 

“ Will you confess, Jew!” cried he, grasping his victim 
still firmer, and planting his dagger close to the unfort¬ 
unate man's body. 

There was not much time to consider, Pinkus per¬ 
ceived, so he nodded convulsively. The Black Mask 
immediately loosened his hold. 

“Oh, my God, my God!” groaned Pinkus, “how long, 
0 Lord! shall we still be in Galuthf 9 (exile). 


830 


THE WIDOW'S SOM 


“ Cease your winning, confess if you still have the boy, 
and let me see him.” 

“ Oh, gracious sir, I had the boy until a few days ago, 
When he disappeared.” 

“Youlie* Jew, you lie! You have hidden him some¬ 
where.” 

“ So may God help me in my utmost need, I do not 
know where the boy is. He wont away from here a few 
days ago, and has not returned.” 

Had the stranger’s face not been covered by a mask, it 
could have been seen that an expression of pleased sur¬ 
prise depicted itself on his countenance. 

“ That ic worth one thousand florins more,” muttered 
he; then he erid, aloud: “You Jews have killed him and. 
drank his blood! I came to get him to-day, and to reward 
you for the faithful accomplishment of your task. To my 
horror I find that you have done away with the child. 
’Tis a bad business, and may cost every Jew’s head in the 
city, be it man, woman or child.” 

“ But we are guiltless, sir; the Lord knows, that we are 
guiltless; the boy ran away; there is Christian blobd in 
his veins, and he has probably returned to those of his 
faith.” 

“Very well,” said the Black Mask. “I shall procure 
my witnesses and confide this matter to a magistrate. 
He will pronounce judgment on you, if the mob has not 
previously hastened your departure from this world. 
Adieu, Pinkus.” 

“ Mercy, mercy,” howled Pinkus, falling on his knees 
and grasping the stranger’s cloak. 

The latter turned and said: 

“You must not ask mercy of me, I have none to dis¬ 
pense.” 

“Oh, yes, gracious sir; oh, yes, you have yourself 
Once before saved us from a great misfortune.” 

“ I should like to do this again, but I know not in what 
manner. I require thousands of florins to make my wit¬ 
nesses hold their peace. If you are able to procure three 



231 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 

thousand florins in about three clays at most, I will see 
what I can do.” 

Now Pinkus had all this time suspected that the 
stranger's object was to extort money, and he was ready 
to promise any sacrifice on his part, and on that of the 
congregation, to avert an incalculable misfortune; all the 
more as he knew that the slightest accusation would gain 
strength by the fact of th.e boy's disappearance. But 
Pinkus was not president any more, and, therefore, could 
not agree to the stranger's demand. He explained this 
to the Black Mask, and the latter consented to come on 
the next day in order to hear the decision of the congre¬ 
gation. 'fhen he left the unhappy Pinkus, who tore his 
hair and sat down on a foot-stool, rent his garments, as it 
is customary on the death of a relative, and regarded the 
calamity again pending on the inhabitants of the Ghetto. 

We last saw the sexton flying down the street, impelled 
by terror of the Black Mask. He did not relax his speed 
until he came in sight of his house, which was situated 
in a cross street. Still breathing heavily, he ascended 
the steps, and, after fervently kissing the Mezuza fastened 
to the door-post, turned the knob and threw open the 
door. The cry the sexton now uttered would have made 
the hearer's hair stand on end. Indeed, the sexton’s hair 
did not fail to do so, and his knees knocked against each 
other in an almost alarming manner. The reader must 
not laugh at him, for he certainly would have been just 
as terrified had he seen what Sexton Wolf beheld. 

Sitting on a chair, and quietly turning over the leaves 
of a Hebrew book, sat the Black Mask. Wolf had made 
good speed; he knew that he was a runner; he had left 
the Black Mask at Pinkus' side, and now here he was; be¬ 
sides, while he himself was still quite out of breath, there 
the Black Mask sat quite composedly; and his breath 
seemed to come and go very easily. It was hard not to 
believe in miracles, and not to be afraid of masked indi¬ 
viduals, 

The Black Mask, on hearing the sexton's dreadful cry, 


232 


THE WIDOW’S SON . 


looked up and regarded the terrified man, who sank 
back into a chair near the door. 

“ Why did you shriek so, my good man?” asked the 
Black Mask, rising from his seat. “ I am sorry to have 
been the cause of your terror; but I am here with no un 
friendly intentions, and have been awaiting you this half 
an hour.” 

Good God, the matter grew worse and worse. The 
Black Mask had been there half an hour. Dreadful, 
dreadful! While he sat here, he was at the same time 
with Pinkus. 

The Black Mask’s words, far from pacifying the sex¬ 
ton, only terrified him the more. His tremors fairly 
shook the chair beneath him. This did not escape the 
stranger’s observation, but he ascribed the tremors to a 
fever; and putting his hand in the pocket of his cloak, 
drew forth a small flask, and told the sexton to put forth 
his tongue. What could poor Wolf do other than put 
out his tongue? And he did it to such perfection that 
it hung out like that of a panting dog. The stranger 
poured a few drops from his flask upon it, and Wolf quickly 
drew back his tongue, while he made a wry face. 

“ There,” said the Black Mask, “ that will do you 
good; in five minutes the chills will have left you.” 

Then he resumed his seat, and continued: 

“ My good man, no doubt you will be surprised at the 
cause of my coming here.” 

The sexton essayed to nod; but as he had not as yet 
ceased to tremble, even this slight movement was unsuc 
cessful. 

“ I wish to know how many Jews there are in the 
Ghetto, whose names begin with, the letter P;” that is 
to say, only the names of Ba’ale Battim ” (heads of fam¬ 
ilies). 

The Black Mask drew forth some tablets, and the sex¬ 
ton, opening and shutting his mouth several times quite 
in vain, at last began: 


233 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 

“ There—is—Per—Per—Peretz; then—Po—Po—Pol 
Pollack; then—Pin—Pink—ku—kus—Pinkus—and-■” 

“ That will do, my good man,” said the stranger; 
“your violent trembling impedes your speech. You 
probably have a list of the names of the members of the 
congregation. Will you be so kind as to let me see this?” 

Glad to be able to escape from the object of his terror, 
if but for an instant, the sexton hastened as fast as his 
trembling limbs would permit, into the adjoining room, 
and soon returned with a book, which he deposited on 
the table. 

The stranger began to copy this book, to the no small 
astonishment of the sexton; for, as a matter of course, 
the book was written in Hebrew characters. 

When the Black Mask had finished, he arose, and 
saying, “Many thanks, my good man,” took his de¬ 
parture. 

For a time, the sexton did not dare to stir. When he 
at length arose and went to the table in order to close the 
book, which the stranger had left open, he found lying 
on it a gold coin of no inconsiderable value. 

When he had recovered from his astonishment, and as¬ 
certained that the coin was by no means hot, he put it in 
his pocket, and ran straight to Pinkus. On reaching 
the corner of the street, he heard some one shout “ Take 
care, there!” and on looking up, saw a carriage, from the 
window of which the Black Mask leaned forth. But 
when, about half a minute afterward, he reached the 
house of Pinkus, he saw the Black Mask, whose carriage 
he could still behold in the distance, step quietly forth 
into the street. 

That evening it was known, not only in the Ghetto, 
but in half the city, that the Black Mask had been seen 
simultaneously in three parts of the Jews’ quarter: in 
the house of Pinkus, in that of the sexton, and in his 
own carriage. 



£34 


THE WIDOW'S SOX 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE BLACK GLOVE. 

Let ns see wliat Pinkus did after the Black Mask left 
him. That very evening he made a call on the president 
and told him all the incidents of the Black Mask’s visit 
and his demand. However, to all Pinkus’ urgent entrea¬ 
ties that the president should summon a meeting of the 
congregation, the latter, who was of a quiet, phlegmatic 
disposition, returned the answer: 

“We will wait awhile yet.” 

“But,” cried Pinkus, “the man is coming for his 
money to-morrow forenoon.” 

“He will wait awhile,” returned the president, with 
the greatest calmness. 

“ Oh, you do not know the man,” cried Pinkus, in de¬ 
spair. “At the time of our last Gazerah you were at the 
Yeshiba (Rabbinical College). If the congregation were 
aware of what is in prospect for them, they would be as 
desperate as I am.” 

“The congregation will wait awhile also.” 

“ Good God, with your everlasting waiting you will 
bring down destruction on all Israel.” 

“I will wait awhile with that, likewise.” 

Half dead with fright, Pinkus left the “ waiting ” presi¬ 
dent, and passed a most wretched night; for all he knew, 
the full measure of the stranger’s wrath would de¬ 
scend on his head. A hundred times and more he be¬ 
moaned the unhappy fate which had wrested the scepter 
of his command over the congregation from him. How 
totally different to a placid man, who had no heart for 
the people under his guidance, would he have acted! 
All! little did he know what he was saying when, on the 
day its first misfortune broke in on the Ghetto, he 
wished that he were not president. Now the wish he had 
expressed in an evil hour was accomplished—accomplished 
to his detriment and that of the whole congregation. 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 235 

The coming day was greeted by the unfortunate Pinkus 
as his last on earth. He arose betimes and taking his 
prayer-book and psalms to hand, read all that he could 
find that had any reference to a case like this. When he 
had finished, he got down from his shelves the books 
which contained the Selicliotli (prayers for the ten peni¬ 
tential days), and selected from these the most fitting 
themes. When he had got through these, the day was 
pretty far advanced, yet still the dreaded stranger had 
not come; so Pinkus thought he had reason to believe that 
the fervor and strength of his prayers had banished him, 
and he accordingly looked about for even stronger exor¬ 
cisms to keep the Black Mask at a safe distance. 

He considered for awhile, and could think of nothing 
more forcible than the formula which is pronounced dur¬ 
ing a violent storm. Hardly, however, had the words 
escaped his lips, when a shadow fell across his book, and 
looking up, he beheld the Black Mask standing before 
him, as if in truth sent there by the lightning. 

Pinkus wanted to cry out, but his voice failed him; he 
wanted to rise, but his limbs were powerless to obey the 
impulse; he could only think what a blunder he had 
made to recite a prayer which was intended for thunder 
and lightning in a case like this. 

The Black Mask laid his hand lightly on Pinkiis' 
shoulder, and asked in a melodious voice: 

“ Your name is Pinkus, my good man?” 

“ Good God, now he acts as if he had never in his life 
seen me,” thought Pinkus, “and he has disguised his 
voice. Well, I am curious to know what new deviltry he 
is contemplating now.” 

That Pinkus was of an inquisitive turn of mind, even 
on occasions like the present, it is hardly necessary for us 
to recall to the reader's mind. 

On the stranger's perceiving that he received no an* 
swer, he looked around in the room, took a chair, drew it 
close to that of Pinkus, and seated himself on it. 

“You do ugt know me Mr, Pinkus?” began the Black 


233 THE WIDOW’S SON. 

Mask. “I divine it from your surprise. Well, it is rather 
a difficult matter to know a man who wears a mask.” 

“ What a serpent!” thought Pinkus; a now he wants 
to persuade me that I do not know him.” 

When, after a pause, the Black Mask again received no 
answer, he said: 

“ I think that I am not wrong in presuming that about 
nine years ago .a little hoy, born of Christian parents, was 
intrusted to your care.” 

“Just listen to that hypocrite!” thought Pinkus; “he 
plays with me like a cat with a mouse!” 

But still Pinkus was mute. Again the Black Mask 
waited for an answer, and at last grew impatient. 

“Pinkus,” said he, shortly, “can you not answer a 
polite question by 'yes' or ‘no’?” 

“Now,” thought Pinkus, “he is at least coming out 
in his true colors,” and he answered: 

“Yes, gracious sir.” 

The Black Mask drew a breath of satisfaction, and con¬ 
tinued: 

“ Can you tell me the particulars of the manner in 
which the child was delivered to you?” 

“ That you probably know as well as I do,” returned 
Pinkus; “ you have your sport with me!” 

“ That I do not, Mr. Pinkus; but if it pleases you to 
think I know it, do so; it is probably known to every in¬ 
habitant of the Ghetto. I imagine that I know it, but 
still wish to hear it once more from your lips. I assure 
you that this will not result to your disadvantage.” 

“Aha!” thought Pinkus, “he is alluding to the money; 
he wants to revel in my pain, in letting me relate this ac¬ 
cursed story. However, it is better for me to accede to 
his request; he might else increase his demand. Shall I 
commence at the beginning?” asked Pinkus, aloud. 

Yes,” returned the Black Mask. “ Proceed just as if 
I knew not a syllable of the whole matter. ” 

Pinkus related his adventure, which we sufficiently 
know, and growing warm as his recital progressed, forgot 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 237 

that lie was only repeating what he thought his auditor 
already knew, and that the latter acted the principal part 
throughout the whole story. 

When Pinkus had finished, he asked, with the satisfac¬ 
tion of a child after reciting some fairy tale: 

“Did I do well, gracious sir?” 

“ You are an excellent story-teller, Mr. Pinkus, and I 
am deeply indebted to you,” returned the Black Mask; 
“ but permit me to put another question: is the child still 
with you?” 

“ Now it is coming; God have mercy on me,” thought 
Pinkus, wringing his hands, while he cried in a whining 
voice: “ Oh, believe me, gracious sir, for God’s sake 
believe me-” 

The stranger seemed surprised at this outburst on the 
part of Pinkus, for he arose from his chair and said: 

“Why should I not believe you, Mr. Pinkus? did I ex¬ 
press any doubt as to the truth of your story?” 

“ Now he is speaking in another tone again,” thought 
Pinkus, and in the same whining voice said: “He is gone, 
as sure as I live he is gone!” 

“ Who is gone?” asked the Black Mask, hastily seizing 
Pinkus’ hand, which the latter, who feared a repetition 
of the scene of yesterday, as hastily withdrew. “ Tell 
me, tell me,” asked the Black Mask,.anxiously. 

“There is not much to tell,” moaned Pinkus, “and I 
am not to blame. It is solely the fault of the president, 
and the whole matter lies on his conscience; for he 
wanted the child, who lived on the charity of the congre¬ 
gation, to earn something, therefore he was sent to the 
city to peddle rolls.” 

* ‘ Rolls ? A fair-haired boy ? beautiful as an angel ?” has¬ 
tily asked the Black Mask, seizing Pinkus so violently by 
the shoulder that the latter grew quite breathless with fear. 
Then the stranger seemed struck by some sudden thought; 
for, hurling Pinkus, who was clinging to his cloak, away 
with such force that he flew into a corner, he rushed off 
with the speed of a roe. 


238 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


Greatly astounded, Pinkus came forth from his corner 
and thanked God for his respite. But the poor man's joy 
was but of a brief duration, for in about two minutes the 
door of the little dwelling was again pushed open, and the 
Black Mask re-entered. 

“Well, Jew/' he cried, in a voice which brought 
Pinkus to his knees, “have you the money which is to 
save you and your accomplices from the gallows?" 

“ There," thought Pinkus, “ now he speaks in his 
usual manner and tone of voice. I must have recourse to 
pleading. Gracious sir," he began, “ but now you were 
so amiable—not at all impolite, and did not mention the 
money—I thought you had given up all idea of it." 

“ Did I not tell you yesterday that I must have the 
money to-day, else I would bring down destruction on all 
of you?" 

“Yes, gracious sir, that's what you said yesterday; but 
to-day you did not say a word about it." 

“Are you mocking me, rascal?" cried the Black Mask; 
“ do you want to make a fool of me?" and he approached 
Pinkus so menacingly that the latter drew back affrighted. 

“But, gracious sir, just recollect. Nothing is further 
from my thoughts than a jest. Hardly two minutes have 
elapsed since you left me." 

The Black Mask was startled for a moment; then he 
said to himself: “Terror and anxiety about the money 
appear to have turned the Jew's head. I will speak more 
guardedly, else the whole project may turn out a fail¬ 
ure." 

“Attention, Pinkus," said he aloud; “collect your 
thoughts, reflect, and answer the questions I shall put to 
you." 

“ Speak, gracious sir, and if I can I will answer." 

“ When did you last see me, Pinkus; when last speak 
to me?" 

“Not quite ten minutes ago, gracious sir." 

“Reflect, Pinkus, reflect; you are mistaken." 

Pinkus thought, “Icaudohim the favor of pretend,* 



THE WIDOW'S SON. m 

ing to think.” He cast liis eyes to the ground, and as¬ 
sumed the appearance of one deeply sunk in thought. 
Was not every moment he could delay the catastrophe a 
gain? But suddenly he uttered a cry, and pounced on 
something that lay on the floor with such fury that the 
Black Mask recoiled, fairly terrified. 

Pinkus picked up—a black glove! 

“ Here, here,” he cried, triumphantly, “ this you 
dropped, gracious sir, when you were here awhile ago.” 

The Black Mask started, contemplated the glove, and 
furiously cast it away from him. 

“Have you the money, Jew?” he roared; “then give 
it to me, and quickly.” 

The Black Mask was trembling violently. 

“ Pardon, gracious sir, but you must have patience for 
a few days; the money-” 

“Never mind,” broke in the Black Mask, “you need 
not procure it; I do not require it any more.” 

And quicker than he had come, the Black Mask left 
the room and house of Pinkus. 

Barely ten minutes afterward, and while Pinkus was 
still racking his brain as to the cause that events had 
taken such a fortunate turn, the president of the congre¬ 
gation entered his dwelling. 

“Well,” said he, “was the Black Mask here?” 

“ Yes,” returned Pinkus. 

“ And did he ask for the money?” 

“ He did; but, as I was excusing myself for not having 
it, he assured me that he was in no need of it any more.” 

“ Kemarkable, very remarkable, indeed,” muttered the 
president. “ First the man raises such a row about the 
money, and then quietly resigns it.” 

“ Yes, indeed, it is a miracle.” 

“ That comes of awaiting things calmly, and never 
acting hastily,” said the president; “no one ever repented 
of waiting.” 

“No, no,” cried Pinkus, whom the president's wait¬ 
ing had provoked more than once; “ this black glove is 


240 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


the cause of it,” and he showed it to the president. 
“ Hardly had I shown it to him, when he began to 
tremble, and hastily asked for the money, as if he were in 
a great hurry. When I declared to him that he must 
have patience for a few days, he cried out, in visible ter¬ 
ror, that he had no more need for the money, and that I 
was not to mind it. Then he hastened off.” 

The president regarded the black glove on all sides, 
but could discover nothing remarkable about it. It was 
simply a black glove—nothing more. 

“Do you know, Pinkus,” said he, at last, “it cannot 
be denied that the ways of God are miraculous, and that it 
is remarkable that such a piece of black stuff should have 
averted a gezerah to our people. I will take the glove 
with me, and the congregation shall keep it as a memento 
of their deliverance. Let us summon the congregation 
this evening for a special service, and render thanksgiv¬ 
ing to the Lord for our miraculous redemption, and re¬ 
hearse Psalm 124, which is appropriate for it, and reads 
thus: * If the Lord had not been for us, Israel may now 
say, if the Lord had not been for us, when men rose up 
against us, they had swallowed us up alive, when their 
wrath was kindled against us. Then the waters had over¬ 
whelmed us, the stream had gone over our soul. Blessed 
be the Lord, who had not given us a prey to their teeth. 
Our soul hath escaped as a bird out of the fowler’s snare; 
the snare is broken and we are escaped. Our help is in 
the name of the Lord, who made heaven and earth.’” 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

THE BLACK MASK AT HOME. 

The Black Mask’s carriage stopped before a splendid 
house in the most aristocratic quarter of the city. The 
servant sprang down and assisted his master to alight. 
Then he ascended the steps and opened the door of the 
house. 

The Black Mask entered a lofty hall which was sup- 



THE WIDOW'S SON. 


241 


ported by marble columns, and from the center of which 
a staircase, constructed of tbe most costly wood, led to 
the upper stories. The inlaid floor was covered here and 
there by Persian rugs. 

The Black Mask ascended the stairs, and was met at the 
top by a servant who said: 

“ Sir, a large number of patients are assembled in the 
anteroom, and are anxiously awaiting your arrival.” 

The Black Mask, making a motion of impatience with 
his hand, followed the servant, who led the way to a 
large room, the folding doors of which lie slid back and 
announced: 

“The doctor.” 

The murmur of voices which the doctor had heard be¬ 
fore the doors were opened ceased instantaneously as he 
entered the large room which was almost filled by persons 
who had come to beg succor and health for themselves or 
dear ones belonging to them. 

The mask which the physician wore contributed no in¬ 
considerable share to his popularity; as people did not 
think him a man like other men. but believed him to be of 
supernatural origin. 

The Black Mask looked around the room, and his at¬ 
tention seemed attracted by a young girl, the most shab¬ 
bily dressed person in the room, for he signed her to fol¬ 
low him. 

He preceded her into his study, which adjoined the 
waiting room, and before he seated himself at his magnifi¬ 
cent writing-desk, drew up a velvet arm-chair for the poor 
girl, who was quite subdued by the splendor of all she 
saw. 

“What ails you my child?” he asked in a friendly 
tone. 

“Ah, sir,” began the girl, “I do not come for myself, 
but in the name of my mother, the poor Widow Hammer, 
whom you visited some four weeks ago. She is ill again. 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


242 

All the washing she has lately done has been too much 
for her strength.” 

The physician questioned the girl as to the particulars 
of her mother’s illness, and after reflecting for awhile 
said: 

“ I know very well what medicine will be best for your 
mother. I recollect that she is the mother of four chil¬ 
dren, of whom only you, my good' girl, are able to assist 
her in her endeavors for their support.” 

“ Till now I tried to do so, sir; but since my mother is 
sick I am compelled to remain at home,” returned the 
girl, the tears entering her eyes. 

The Black Mask drew some coins out of his purse. 

“Here, my child,” said he, “this I think is the 
medicine that will help your mother. Tell her that she 
must not go out to wash any more this winter, and when 
she has taken all this medicine come again, I have more 
of it.” 

He pressed her hand, and she felt three or four coins 
glide in it. Ere he could prevent it, the girl had seized 
the good physician’s hand and covered it with kisses and 
tears. He signed to her to go, and, her face radiant with 
happiness, the girl obediently left the room. 

The door was immediately reopened, and a servant in 
livery looked inquiringly into the room. 

“Are there more poor people, Jacob?” asked the Black 
Mask. 

“No, sir, only an old Jew who is dressed rather poor¬ 
ly.” 

“Bring him hither.” 

“ I beg your pardon, sir, but the noble gentlemen, who 
have already murmured at the act of showing them into 
the same room with the common people, will be horrified 
that an old Jew has the precedence before them.” 

The Black Mask stamped his foot and said sternly: 

“ Do as I bade you. Any one who is not satisfied with 
my rules is at liberty to withdraw.” 

The servant vanished; and that he had spoken only in the 


THE WIDOW’S SOy. 


243 


interest of his master was soon very evident. Loud mur¬ 
murs became audible, chairs were pushed back, the door 
of the hall violently slammed several times, and the Black 
Mask could distinctly hear the curses and maledictions 
aimed at the beggar of a Jew, who dared penetrate into 
the house of such a celebrated physician, the excuses the 
poor Jew made, and his offer to immediately and gladly 
leave the room, if it so pleased the noble gentlemen. 

The Black Mask rose angrily and appeared at the door 
as the tumult was at its height. 

“ Gentlemen,” he cried in a voice of thunder, and im¬ 
mediately there was such silence that the fall of a pin 
might have been heard. “I desire that you either con¬ 
form to my rules or dispense with my advice.” 

He approached the Jew, whose face was covered, for 
he was weeping, grasped his hand, and drew him into his 
study. 

This was too much for the noble gentlemen, who one 
after the other left the waiting-room. The servant an¬ 
nounced this with a grieved face. 

“Never mind, my man,” answered the Black Mask; 
“ they’ll all come back soon enough. If I, as physician, 
cannot teach them that all men are equals, then no one 
can do it.” 

He now turned his attention to the Jew, and fairly 
started as he caught sight of his face. 

“What is your name, my good friend?”asked he, with 
trembling voice. 

“Isaac Kline,” answered the Jew. 

“ Are you from this city?” the doctor continued to 
question, holding his hand tightly pressed on his heart. 

“No, no; I come from a great distance. Your honor 
has probably never heard the name of our village, although 
your fame has penetrated to us. Its name is Immenfeld, 
a small, insignificant place, which was formerly famous 
for its castle. The man who is in charge of it now never 
gave us a coin to earn yet. In former times,” continued 
the Jew, loquaciously, “ we thought we would be happy 




244 THE WIDOW'S SON. 

if we only could get rid of the baroness, but since she is 
gone, the whole castle seems to have gone to sleep.” 

We cannot say if the physician was interested in the 
Jew's talk, or if he was thinking of something else. He 
allowed the old man to ramble on, and the latter had 
ceased a long ydiile before the physician raised his head 
and inquired: 

“Well, my good man, what leads you to me? Are you 
sick ?'' 

“ Ho, not I,” returned Isaac Kline. “Iam the sexton 
of the Immenfeld congregation; the most important per¬ 
son of our community, the president, is afflicted with a 
dreadful disease. Ho one could help him, and he was 
quite hopeless, until he heard of you; then he said to me 
one day: 

“ f Isaac,' said he—my name is. Isaac, your honor— 
f go to the city, to the Black Mask'—that is what the 
people call your honor;—‘ tell him of my sickness, per¬ 
haps he can help me.’ I waited over the Sabbath, for on 
that day I have to be on my post in the synagogue, and 
the journey, I knew, would take me a whole week; and 
then I went to an old woman—a little woman she is, and 
she used to nurse the sick people before the duke granted 
her a pension, no one knows why; since that she lives very 
comfortably, very comfortably, indeed, and—Avhat was I 
going to say? Oh, yes—I went to her, and said: ‘ Mrs. 
Bonafit,'—goodness! what is the matter, with you, sir? 
Flies? Yes; they are very annoying; I guess we will 
have rain soon. Well, I said to Mrs. Bonafit that she 
should go and take care of the president during the 
absence of Isaac (meaning myself); for the president's 
wife—peace to her ashes!—is dead. 

“Mrs. Bonafit, although she is not very strong now, 
went with me immediately, and she is taking care of the 
president until my return. Of course she does not need 
to do it, for she has quite a large pension from the duke; 
but she is very fond of the president, because he never 
allows any one to slander her boy, who was a real good- 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 245 

for-nothing, and who ran away the day before his Bar- 

f Mitzvah. (But I beg your pardon! you do not know what 
a Bar-Mitzvah is). Then Mrs. Bonafit, who always wanted 
' to persuade us that her boy was no good-for-nothing, 
1 -probably made it up with the president that a Ba’al-Shem 
f should come to the village. 

“ Your honor knows what a Ba’al-Shem is? A Ba’al- 
| Shem is—well—a Ba’al-Shem. Now, the Ba’al-Shem really 
I did come, and she says that he told her that her son 
J oseph (his name) was in a good place, and that great 
■ things were in store for him. 

“Now the old woman is waiting for her son, just as we 
| are waiting for the coming of the Messiah, and she firmly 
. believes that the good-for-nothing, who once associated 
\ intimately with an apostate, will yet do her and his con- 
f gregation great honor. However, it is more than nine 
J years since then, and no one has heard anything of the 

; boy- 

“All mockery and all dissuasions are in vain. Old 
Mrs. Bonafii has implicit faith in her son, and always 
says: 

“ ‘ My boy will come back, for the Ba’al Shem has said 

it.’ 

“And thus she has grown old and gray, and in due 
' course of time will sink to everlasting rest, but her good- 
for-nothing will not come back. - ” 

The Black Mask had jumped up from his chair and 
walked excitedly up and down the room all the time that 
Isaac Kline, *the sexton of Immenfeld, gossiped away, 
with his eyes, as is the custom of old people when talking, 
directed toward the floor. He had so lost himself in his 
reminiscences, that he could not remember for what he had 
come hither until the Black Mask reminded him of his 
errand. 

“ Ah, yes," said he, “ your honor must excuse me, but 
, I get excited when I think of that good-for-nothing of a 
boy; for he has a mother who may be compared to Sarah, 
Rebecca, Rachel and Leah, Well, the president is para- 



246 THE WIDOW'S SON. 

lyzed in all liis limbs,, and has not been able to stir for the 
last year. I am to ask you if anything ean be done for 
him ? He is the richest man in the congregation, and if 
you cure him will pay you anything you demand.” 

“I must.see the man.” 

The doctor said this slowly, and as if the resolve had 
cost him much thought. 

“ How is that possible, your honor? We cannot fetch 
him here.” 

“I—I will go there!” 

“To Immenfeld? It takes a whole week to go there 
and come back.” 

“Yes, and if it were to take a year, I must go there,” 
said the Black Mask, in a voice which seemed to Isaac to 
have an angry sound. 

“ When will your honor come?” asked Isaac, subdued. 

“ I know not; to-day, to-morrow, next week, some 
time or other, but come I will most surely.” 

The Black Mask sank into a chair, and to all appear¬ 
ances paid not a particle of attention to all of what the 
old man continued to talk. At last he arose, and, without 
taking the slightest notice of his visitor, left the room. 
Passing through the waiting-room he ascended the stairs 
to the second story. Here also the floor was covered by 
costly carpets and the walls lined with precious paintings. 

The Black Mask walked to the extreme end of the cor¬ 
ridor and there softly opened a door and entered a room, 
the windows of which were darkened by thick curtains. 
Still the outlines of a little white bed aftd the bowed 
form of a woman sitting beside it could be plainly dis¬ 
tinguished. 

“Margareth,” said the Black Mask, approaching the 
bed on tiptoe, “how is the little fellow?” 

“ Still very feverish. Will you not see for yourself ?” 

The Black Mask drew back the curtains, and the 
bright rays of the sun broke in and flooded the bed in a 
sea of light. A little boy lay on it, his cheeks flushed by 
fever, his eyes almost closed, Long golden curls framed 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 247 

in the lovely face. Wondrously beautiful must the child 
have been when the ruddy hue of health instead of the 
flush of fever glowed on his checks and his eyes, now 
covered by their long lashes, looked merrily and joyously 
into the world. At a sign from the Black Mask the 
woman arose, and he sat down at her place and took the 
boy’s hand in his. He examined the pulse, then, dubi¬ 
ously shaking his head, sighed heavily. 

“ This fever has not left him for nine days,” said he. 
“ That accursed rascal’s blow must have affected the child’s 
brain. To be so near to port and suffer shipwreck! Oh, 
it is terrible. My art has its limits; I can do no more; 
my prophecy will prove a disgraceful failure. After ten 
years of vain search I will place the dead child in its 
mother’s arms. God only, and one man can help here.” 

The door was opened softly, and a servant cautiously 
put in his head. 

“Sir,” said he, “a Franciscan friar is desirous of 
speech with you. I tried to turn him off; but-” 

“ Where is he? Where is he?” asked the Black Mask, 
hurriedly. 

“Here, here, my son!” cried a joyous voice at the 
door. 

“God be thanked. Father Anselmo!” cried the Black 
Mask, rushing forward, and the next moment the friends 
were locked in each other’s arms. “ Father Anselmo, 
the Lord in his great mercy sent you hither. You came 
not a minute too soon.” 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

THE TH1ED VISITOK IK IMMEHFELD. 

Helplessly stretched out on a couch, and powerless to 
move a limb, lay the president of the Immenfeld congrega¬ 
tion ; that first personage of the community who has been 
brought so often before the reader, but whose name has 
not as yet been mentioned. Let us atone for this neg¬ 
lect, as otherwise it might become difficult for the patient 




248 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 


reader to distinguish the many persons we have intro¬ 
duced to him. The presidents name was Raphael Ben 
Dan. 

At his bedside sat a frail little woman, one whom we 
have seen several times before, and who is patiently wait¬ 
ing for her truant son, as is Israel for the Messiah, with 
a firm and implicit belief. Ah, we know the good soul 
as she sits there, her back bowed with age and cares, her 
eyes reddened by much weeping, her good-natured face 
crossed by deep furrows, her forehead covered by some 
stray white locks which had escaped from the confine¬ 
ment of her close-fitting black cap. It is the mother of 
Joseph Bonafit, that good mother of an unworthy son, as 
Isaac Kline, the sexton, had said to the Black Mask. 

Mrs. Bonafit nods sleepily now and then, only to start 
up in affright and stare into the night-light, which con¬ 
sists of a small wax taper stuck into a piece of card, the 
whole swimming in a glass of oil. Wide awake, she stares 
at the little light for half a minute, then slowly, slowly 
her head droops again, and she is off in dreamland. *Tis 
no wonder the good woman feels tired, and drops off to 
sleep, though she had resolved to keep awake never so 
firmly, for the watchman, also an old acquaintance of 
ours, is just calling out the twelfth hour. The sick man 
groans, the little woman starts up and looks confusedly 
around for a moment, then she remembers where she is, 
and says, in her still melodious voice: 

“Rabbi Ben Dan, did you say something?” 

“ Good Mrs. Bonafit, how long is it since Isaac Kline 
came back from the city?” 

Mrs. Bonafit reflected for a while, then said: 

“ It was a week last Friday.” 

“ And what day is it to-day?” 

“ Just now the watchman called out the twelfth hour; 
that is the beginning of Thursday.” 

“ So it is nearly a fortnight, and still the physician 
does not come. Oh, a body can die, and be buried twice 


249 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 

over, before ever such a doctor even thinks of keeping his 
word.” 

“He will come,”said Mrs. Bonafit, consolingly. “You 
must remember that such a distinguished man’s time is 
fully occupied, and that he promised more than we dared 
hope for—his coming to see you.” 

“ Many thanks for that,” cried Ben Dan, peevishly; 
“Isaac told him that I was rich, and could pay him well, 
so the sacrifice on his part is not so great.” 

“ How can you talk so?” returned Mrs. Bonafit, reprov¬ 
ingly; “ as if the great doctor could not gain as much, or 
perhaps more, did he remain in the city instead of com¬ 
ing here.” 

Ben Dan must have perceived the force of this argu¬ 
ment, for lie did not answer. Mrs. Bonafit began to nod 
again, and all was soon as quiet as before her conversation 
with the president; suddenly she started up with a cry of 
terror. The blast of a post-horn—a fanfare—resounded 
shrilly through the silence of night. 

“ Mrs. Bonafit, Mrs. Bonafit,” cried the sick man, anx¬ 
iously, “as I hope that God will restore me to health, I 
believe that this is the doctor, the Black Mask.” 

“Where? where? Who?” asked Mrs. Bonafit, her 
senses not quite collected yet. 

Again the post-horn sounded, and the rattling of a 
coach could be plainly heard coming up the street to the 
president's house, where it suddenly ceased. 

“ Praise be to God,” said Mrs. Bonafit, “ he has really 
come.” 

Quickly she set her cap straight, fastened the kerchief 
at her neck, and hunted for one of her slippers which 
she had dropped while napping. When she at last re¬ 
covered this, she had much ado to get it on the right 
way; then she wasted several minutes in looking for the 
torch, which at that time was the only substitute for a 
candle. When she at last found it, and was holding it 
over the wax taper in the glass to light it, several loud 
knocks resounded at the door, and so startled the good 


250 THE WIDOW'S SON. 

woman that she dropped the torch into the glass, which 
extinguished the light, and total darkness reigned in the 
room. 

“Good God, how very awkward!” cried the sick man, 
much provoked by the nervous little woman. 

“I can’t help it,” she returned, apologetically; “the 
Sr ore (distinguished person) has quite upset me.” 

“ Please open the door, Mrs. Bonafit; the man is capa¬ 
ble of going off: without seeing me.” 

“In the dark? How can I bring the man into such 
Egyptian darkness?” 

“ Just so; you can lead him in; and then the carriage 
lantern can be brought,” cried the president, angrily. 

(The reader has probably not forgotten how difficult it 
was at that time to strike a light.) 

Mrs. Bonafit immediately tripped down the stairs, and 
drew back the bolt from the door. 

In the faint light which the carriage-lamp diffused, 
Mrs. Bonafit saw standing before her the imposing figure 
of a man, the upper part of whose face was concealed by 
a black mask. 

Many words were not wasted. Mrs. Bonafit felt her¬ 
self pushed back into the dark house and—terror almost 
deprived her of her senses—a number of glowing kisses 
were imprinted on her wrinkled face. Then her hands 
were seized and fervently pressed, and the figure, which 
she now of course could not at all distinguish, drew her 
through the hall and up the stairs to the sick-room without 
once stumbling. Mrs. Bonafit was quite beside herself. 
The doctor had kissed her—her, a pious old Jewess; the 
crime appeared enormous! Then she comforted herself 
that it had all been a mistake, that the kisses had not 
been intended for her. Still, she was provoked at such 
behavior from a distinguished physician who had come 
to pay a visit to a sick man. All these thoughts flashed 
across the little woman’s mind as she stepped into the 
sick-room with the stranger, 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


251 


“Why is there no light here?” now asked the latter, 
in an extremely melodious voice. 

However, he did not wait for an answer; but stepping 
to a faint square of light at the opposite end of the room, 
which he rightly divined to be the window, he opened it, 
and called out: 

“ Jacob, bring up the carriage lantern.” 

Shortly after, the servant entered with a lantern, and 
the stranger bade him light all the branches of the Sab¬ 
bath lamp. 

Soon the little room was ablaze with light, and the 
stranger attentively regarded the little woman, who as¬ 
cribed his curiosity to quite another cause, and was elated 
by the thought how much the strange doctor must feel 
ashamed of his mistake, at having kissed an old Jewess. 

“ Sit down, my good woman,” said the stranger, in a 
friendly tone; “standing is not good for old bones.” 

“Why does the man's voice tremble so?” asked Mrs. 
Bonafit of herself, as she drew up a chair and sat down. 

“How are you, my good woman?” asked the Black 
Mask, and his voice vibrated strangely. 

“ You mistake, sir,” Mrs. Bonafit ventured to say, 
rising from her chair, courtesying, and quickly seating 
herself again, “I am not the patient; he lies there on 
the bed.” 

The Black Mask quietly took this correction, ap¬ 
proached the bed, and proceeded to examine the sick 
man. 

“Can you give me hope?” asked Ben Dan, when the 
doctor had finished. 

“ Yes, with God's help; and if you closely follow my 
instructions, I believe that you may be completely re¬ 
stored to health. But the means will cost you a con¬ 
siderable sum; for you will have to construct certain 
buildings, for which I will give you the plans.” 

(It may here be remarked that the Black Mask pre* 
scribed Kussian vapor-baths for his patient; these were not 


252 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 


in vogue, even then little known, and in such a remote 
part in Germany as Immenfeld, not even dreamed of.) 

“Further,” continued the doctor, “I am decidedly 
against your being attended to by a woman. Women are not 
strong enough to properly care for a sick person like you. 
If you wish to get well, you must not by any means suffer 
a woman to be your nurse. Besides,” proceeded the doc¬ 
tor, “ it is cruel to permit such a frail old woman to sit 
up all night. She must have her share of sleep.” 

Why did the stranger’s voice, which had been so firm 
while giving the sick man his orders, now tremble again? 

“ Excuse me, doctor,” said the sick man, “ I did not 
summon the woman; we are old acquaintances, and, so 
to say, friends, if the president of the congregation and a 
poor woman may be called friends;”—this very com¬ 
placently;—“so good Mrs. Bonafit insisted on being my 
nurse.” 

“ Is the good woman obliged to do this for her sup¬ 
port?” 

“Not at all; our gracious duke has granted her a pen¬ 
sion, on which she can live very comfortably.” 

“ I now hear this for the second time,” muttered the 
Black Mask, and drew forth a memorandum book. “ I 
must make a note of it, and try to find out how this came 
about.” 

The doctor arose, and said: 

“ I will remain in the village till to-morrow morning, 
as I do not like to leave now. Have you a good inn 
here?” 

“Not in the Jews’ lane; but there is one in the 
village,” answered the president. 

“ But I should prefer to stay in the Jews’ lane; I do 
not wish to wake any one in the village.” 

The president reflected while he said: 

“ I really cannot recommend a lodging here, as they all 
leave much to be desired in respect to comfort. I once 
kept a spare room for guests, but since my illness this has 
been put to other use. However, Mrs. Bonafit has a neat 



THE WIDOW'S SON. 


253 


little room in the upper story of her house; she has pre¬ 
pared it for the reception of her absent son in the case of 
his return.” 

“ Mrs. Bonafit, I think that is your name,” said the 
doctor, “will you not put your son’s room at my disposal 
to-night?” 

Mrs. Bonafit would have been glad to say no; but how 
could she, a poor humble woman, dare to reject the re¬ 
quest of such a distinguished man? The denial would 
have remained sticking in her throat. She therefore 
courtesied acquiescently, and the doctor took her hand 
and pressed it so fervently that the poor woman almost 
shrieked. 

“Come, my good woman,” said the Black Mask, 
“show me your house, and my little room, and take a 
few hours’ rest. My servant will watch with the sick 
man for the remainder of the night, and to-morrow he 
can procure another nurse.” 

The doctor ordered his coachman to take the carriage 
to the village stable, posted his servant beside the sick 
man’s bed, and left the house with Mrs. Bonafit. The 
good woman could not marvel enough at the care with 
which the stranger led her, and avoided every stone and 
gutter in their way. Arrived at the house, Mrs. Bonafit 
took from her pocket the door-knob, which replaced the 
key, inserted it in the door, and pushed the latter open. 

As it was dark in the house, she begged her guest to 
wait outside until she had struck a light, and entered her 
little dwelling. When, after persistent blowing into the 
coals, she at last succeeded in getting a light, to her no 
little astonishment she saw the stranger sitting at the 
table, his face buried in his hands, and his body trem¬ 
bling convulsively. 

“Are you ill?” asked Mrs. Bonafit, anxiously. 

“ No, no, my good woman, I feel chilled from the cold 
night air; please show me my room.” 

Lighting the way, Mrs. Bonafit crept up the stairs and 
led the stranger into a small room. All that a mother’s 


254 THE WIDOW'S SON . 

love could do had been done to beautify the little room. 
A dazzling white bed took up one 1 side, the walls were 
covered With pictures, and a glittering copper ewer stood 
on a little washstand, beside which hung a finely em¬ 
broidered towel, the only one of such splendor that Mrs. 
Bonafit possessed; it was the one that her husband had 
always used at the Seder on the eve of passover. A 
wooden stool was covered with gayly colored chintz, which 
gave it quite the appearance of a cushioned arm-chair. In 
short, all that her poverty permitted had the good mother 
done to decorate her child's room. Mrs. Bonafit set 
down the lamp and said: 

“Here, worthy sir, shall my son lodge when he returns 
to me. I hope it pleases you. I am certain that he 
would like the room very much." 

“ It pleases me as much as if I were your son, my good 
woman, and just to make it seem true, I say to you good¬ 
night, mother dear." 

“ Just so, just so he used to say," muttered Mrs Bonafit, 
thoughtfully contemplating the strange doctor. “ Good¬ 
night, sir," said the old woman, starting from her dream- 
ings, and soon the stranger heard her carefully descend¬ 
ing the dilapidated stairs. 

Mrs. Bonafit had a remarkable dream that night. She 
dreamed that the door of her room was softly opened, and 
there entered a young man of great beauty, who much 
resembled her Joseph, and yet in figure and walk looked 
like the strange doctor. Very cautiously and on tiptoes 
he approached her bed, bent over her and kissed her on 
the mouth twice. Mrs. Bonafit dreamed this so vividly 
•that she murmured the name “ Joseph "in her sleep, and 
thought to hear her son's voice reply, “ Mother, dear 
mother." Then he seemed to weep. Again he turned 
into the doctor, who, with a black mask over his face, 
walked backward to the door. Suddenly the rattling of 
a carriage awoke the widow from her dreams. She has¬ 
tened to the window, and was just in time to see a coach 
and four vanishing around the corner. On the table Mrs. 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 255 

Bonafit found a well-filled purse and a letter. She 
opened the latter and her eyes fairly blazed as she recog¬ 
nized the Hebrew characters of her son. She read: 

“ Mother dear! My friend the Black Mask promised to 
deliver this. I neither disgrace you nor the name of an 
Israelite. I have commissioned the doctor to kiss you, 
mother dear, a thousand times for me. Your Joseph.” 

“ So he did not make a mistake after all,” said Mrs. 
Bonafit, her conscience considerably eased. “ But now, 
quick to the president, he must know this.” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE TRIUMPH OF EVIL. 

There was grief and sorrow in the beautiful villa of 
the Count of Weiden. Since the Black Mask had left 
the count the latter had grown worse and worse, and the 
beautiful countess was quite beside herself with grief at 
the thought of her husbamTs approaching death. She 
had done all in her power to preserve the life of the old 
count, who had already passed the age usually allotted to 
man, three-score and ten, for she loved him dearly, and 
patiently bore all his humors and petulancy. She had 
warmly welcomed the woman who, according to the 
sibyPs prophecy, was to come from the East, and had so 
come, although at sight of her a secret shudder of dread 
had overcome the countess. She consented to the 
womaiPs demand, that the count should be left wholly to 
her care, and despite the sibyPs phophecy that death 
would soon carry the old man away, believed that this, 
woman would keep the fell destroyer at bay. 

And when time passed on, and the old count still lived, 
she was certain that the woman from the East had 
effected this wonder. She had but one grievance against 
her; this was that the woman violently opposed her wish 
to send for the Black Mask, of whose wonderful cures 
every one was speaking. The woman called the Black 
Mask a quack, an adventurer, and succeeded in inspiring 
the count with an intense antipathy against the mysteri- 



256 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


ous physician. This had no little to do with the cold, 
sarcastic 'reception the Black Mask had met with on his 
visit to the count. 

When the Black Mask had taken his leave, the count¬ 
ess spoke sadly of the hopes he had given her in regard to 
her lost child. The woman, who was present at the time, 
grew livid with rage. She maligned the impostor in such 
terms that the fastidious countess fairly shuddered with 
dread and disgust. 

“I know this man well,” said the woman, “and could 
have unmasked him long ago. However, it is none of my 
business, until he stretched forth his hand to a family 
which I prize and love beyond all things, that of your 
honorable selves. My lady, do you know for what reason 
this man constantly wears a mask? He is branded on the 
forehead.” 

The count and countess looked at each other in sur¬ 
prise. 

“How do you know this, my good woman?” said the 
countess, not yet wholly convinced. 

“In a city in the East, he was convicted of a dreadful 
crime, and condemned to bear forever a Cain's mark on 
his face. The hangman branded him on the forehead. 
I recognized him the moment I saw him, and that was 
the cause of my panic. Whoever trusts in him is lost.” 

Thus spake and warned the woman who sat at the bed¬ 
side of the count. The count and his wife had not yet 
recovered from the consternation into which the woman's 
disclosure had thrown them, when the knocker on the 
front door resounded three times in rapid succession, and 
a servant brought in a handsomely engraved card on a 
silver salver. The countess took up the card, and said 
coldly: 

“ Tell the Black Mask that he cannot be admitted, as 
the count does not wish to see him.” 

The servant departed, but soon returned, bringing a 
letter on the selfsame salver. 

The countess opened the letter with trembling hands. 


THE WIDOW'S SON . 257 

She could not account to herself why it put her into such a 
state of agitation. As she read, her face flushed and 
paled alternately; she arose hastily, and said to the nurse: 

“ My good Martha, would you he so kind as to leave us 
alone a moment?” 

“Why so?” asked the count, “does the letter contain 
a secret?” 

“No,” said the countess, in confusion, “it is from the 
Black Mask.” 

“ And you attach so much importance to it as to desire 
this good woman to leave my side?” 

“But,” timidly answered the countess, “I only wished 
it in order to spare the good woman some vexation. He 
speaks of her in no very flattering terms.” 

“Oh, then I would urgently pray you,” said the 
woman, with an expression on her face that an impartial 
observer would have construed as that of ill-concealed 
terror, “ to read to me that part of the letter concerning 
me, as probably he has it in mind to drive me from 
here, in order to gain a fair field for his game.” 

“Be easy, my good woman, he will not succeed in this,” 
said the count, in a low voice, for he felt indescribably 
weak. 

“ Oh, God,” cried the countess, “ this letter contains 
tidings which would have filled me with happiness had I not 
heard the disclosure of this worthy woman. Listen, my 
husband, he writes that he has kept his promise; that our 
child is found.” 

At these words the woman was overcome with terror, 
and could not regain her composure for a length of time; 
finally she said, in a constrained voice: 

“Please read the miserable rogue’s letter aloud.” 

The countess glanced at her husband, and as he ex¬ 
pressed no dissent, she read: 

“ Most Honoked Countess:— 

“Suspecting that I would not be admitted to your’ 
presence, as a demon holds guard at the bedside of your- 
husband, and banishes all good spirits thence—a demon 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


258 

whom I think I know, although I caught but a momen¬ 
tary glance of it, I have prepared this letter, in case of 
such emergency. How gladly would I have called to you 
the words which I must now write: Happy mother, your 
child is found. God has rewarded my exertions with 
success. He guided me in my search for the child. He 
is a beautiful fair-haired boy, your perfect image, madam. 

I came near losing him after I had found him, for he was 
sick, so sick that I despaired of his recovery. But God 
has preserved him, and I will place him in his mother’s 
arms, if you, gracious countess, will come to my dwelling, 
either in my carriage or your own. 

“With all respect for yourself, and best wishes for 
your husband, I subscribe myself, 

“The Black Mask.” 

The nurse sat on her chair in a rigid attitude. Her 
eyes were wide open and staring into space. Her hands, 
convulsively clasping each other, lay on her lap. She had 
the appearance of one totally overcome by terror. The 
countess observed the woman’s remarkable looks, and 
said: 

“Martha, for. God’s sake what ails you?” 

The woman opened and shut her mouth several times in 
a vain effort to speak. At last she stammered: 

“Gracious countess, do you believe a word, a single 
word, that the impostor writes?” 

“Would I be so composed did I believe it, Martha?” 
said the countess. “No, no; the man is, in truth, an im¬ 
postor. The only thing I cannot comprehend about the 
matter is, for what reason he plays that game with me.” 

“ But I comprehend it, my lady, I fully comprehend 
it,” shrieked the nurse, now fully recovered from her ter¬ 
ror. “ God in his mercy has protected you. He wanted 
to commit the same crime for which he received the 
brand of Cain on his brow—he wished to capture you, in 
order to send you to Turkey to be sold as a slave.” 

Incredulously as this statement would have been re¬ 
ceived by another person, the countess, whose nerves were 




THE WIDOW'S SON. 


259 

unstrung by the many strange things she had heard, gave 
it full credence. Nor was that which the nurse had said 
an impossibility, for at the commencement of the last 
century women were kidnapped in Hungary and Austria, 
and sent to Turkey to be sold as slaves. 

The countess sank, half-fainting, into a chair, and the 
nurse had enough to do to so far restore her that she was 
enabled to pull the bell and command the servant to tell 
the Black Mask never to molest them by letters or visits 
again, unless he wished to have the police set on his 
track. 

“ Yes, yes,” said the countess to herself, when the serv¬ 
ant had departed to fulfill her command, “ if this woman 
had not come I would now be in that bad man’s power, 
and the House of Weiden would have ended in disgrace 
and bondage.” 

It seemed as if the count’s vital powers had but sur¬ 
vived till the moment when he sent from his door the 
child he had so long and anxiously sought, for they now 
rapidly decreased. He fell from one fainting-fit to an¬ 
other; it was plain that the hand of death lay on him. 
The doctor, who had been hastily summoned, shook his 
head at sight of the patient, then bade the countess and 
the nurse to leave the room. 

“My friend,” said he then, “you are a man, and 
doubtless you are prepared for what I have to tell you.” 

“ I know what you are about to say,” said the count, 
very composedly; “ you wish me to settle my affairs with 
the world, and make my peace with God.” 

“Yes; man has to die some time, and when that time 
comes it beseems him to close his account with earth and 
heaven.” 

Some more consolatory words the doctor said, then left 
his patient, while a priest took up his position by the 
bedside. The count was perfectly calm, but the countess 
was lost in grief. The last sacraments were administered, 
and the dying count called his nurse, who immediately 
stepped up to the bed. 


260 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


“I have something to request of you, my good Martha; 
do not forsake my wife, for you have been appointed her 
guardian by a higher power.” 

“ Never, never will I leave your wife,” sobbed Martha, 
“ never, until I have seen her coffin-lid close over her 
■sweet face.” 

“ That will probably not be the case whilst you live, my 
■good Martha, for my wife is still very young.” 

“ Who can say at what time we shall be summoned?” 
sobbed Martha; “ the younger may precede the older.” 

The count lay quiet awhile, as if lost in thought; then 
he said: 

“Call my wife hither, Martha, and then leave us 
alone.” 

The countess came, and threw herself on her knees by 
the bed. The count comforted her, and said: 

“ See if we are alone, my love.” 

The countess arose, looked around the room, opened 
the door, and glanced into the hall. She forgot, however, 
to look behind the fire-screen. She returned to her hus¬ 
band, who placed his cold hand on her beautiful golden 
curls. 

“ May God protect you, my love, when I am dead,” said 
the count. “You were always a faithful, loving wife, 
though I was an old man and you a blooming girl when 
we clasped hands in marriage.” 

“I loved you, my husband,” sobbed the countess; “you 
were so noble and so good. When my poor parents— 
whom, alas! I never knew—when they died, you, in your 
kindness, took pity on the forsaken orphan.” 

“ I often spoke to you about your parents,” continued 
the count. “ I told you that you were the daughter of a 
poor nobleman, who was a friend of mine, and as such I 
introduced you at court.” 

“ Yes, my husband, but you never mentioned the name 
of my parents.” 

The count was silent a moment; he was very weak in¬ 
deed, After a pause, he said: 




THE WIDOW'S SOtf. 261 

C( I do not want to part from the world and enter the 
presence of God with a lie on my lips; therefore I must 
tell you, my dear wife, my angel—oh, my thoughts are 
going from me—yes, yes, my wife, 1 must make a dis¬ 
closure to you. It may grieve you—grieve—but I cannot 
die—with a lie on my heart. God has already—punished 
me for it—our child—he took my heir from me. Quick, 
my love—come nearer—listen—before it is too late. You 
are not—not the daughter of a nobleman—not the daugh¬ 
ter of a baron—you are the daughter—of a—Jew!” 

A double shriek rang through the room, and there was 
a heavy fall. The countess lay on the floor in a swoon; 
the count's arms hung helplessly from the bed. His eyes 
were glassy and wide open—he was dead. The last sound 
he had heard on earth was the cry which his wife and an¬ 
other person had simultaneously uttered. This other per¬ 
son now came forth from behind the fire-screen. It was 
Martha, the nurse. She raised her clinched hands at the 
dead man and fainting woman. She ground her teeth, 
gasped for air, and then fairly howled the words: 

“ A Jewess! a Jewess! Ho, ho! the child of a Jewess 
shall never inherit the estates of Weidens. 

“Oh! I knew it; the Black Mask is right; the child 
lives—the little Jew is not dead. I know now that Kuno 
lied, that he deceived me; out I will take care that the child 
shall never be acknowledged. How the old man is dead, 
my task begins. Rejoice, Jewess! Ho one shall dispute 
your place in the family vault of the Weidens; and it shall 
be my greatest pride once to be buried beside the baptized 
Jewess, when I shall have wrested the inheritance from 
your son, and given it to mine, who is not the descend¬ 
ant of Jews,” 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

TWO IMPORTANT DISCOVERIES. 

The duke was in a very bad humor this morning. For 
the last few years he had been suffering with the gout, 
which, however, did not prevent his rising at his cus- 



262 THE WIDOW'S SON, 

tomary early hour and settling himself in a comfortable 
chair. Thence he issued all commands and gave ear to all 
visitors. This morning, for the first time since he could 
remember, he was unable to leave his bed, the old soldier’s 
limbs would not obey his will any more. 

After the duke had uttered a considerable number of 
maledictions, had half pulled out his mustache with rage 
and had hurled a cup of chocolate at his valet’s head, it 
suddenly occurred to his mind that perhaps Benrimo 
could cheer him up a little. Accordingly the duke com¬ 
manded: 

“ Tell Benrimo to come here!” in a voice as if he were 
leading a troop to storm a battery, and the twelve gentle¬ 
men in waiting rushed off for this oil which was to soothe 
the agitated humor of Ins royal highness. 

Benrimo was standing with his head and hand encir¬ 
cled by his phylactery, his face turned toward the east, 
repeating the ShemorahEsrah , when the duke’s deputation 
burst into the room. 

All began to speak at once, but as suddenly ceased when 
they saw Benrimo’s occupation, for so sincere was the devo¬ 
tion with which the Jews in former times performed their 
prayers that it excited the respect of all Gentiles. 

The Shemorah Esrah is a prayer consisting of eighteen 
benedictions, and while reciting this no Jew allowed him¬ 
self to be interrupted, were the danger ever so great. Thus 
it was with Benrimo. Although he knew that something’ 
extraordinary must have occurred to bring all the duke's 
attendants into his room, he quietly continued his prayer, 
hobbled three paces back and as many forward at its close, 
and then began to say the closing prayers, during which he' 
unwound his phylacteries, folded them artistically and 
placed them in a little bag. When he had accom¬ 
plished all this, he turned around to the waiting gentlemen* 
and now that his face had become visible, we see that it 
is the Lame Benrimo we knew in Immenfeld, his hair a 
little grayer, but otherwise not at ail altered. 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 263 

“ Good-morning, gentleman,” said he, in a cordial 
tone. 

He was interrupted by a perfect storm of entreaties to 
come to the duke, who felt very unwell, and was besides 
in such a bad humor that there would certainly be broken 
panes and broken heads in the palace before long did not 
the worthy interpreter (the reader will remember that 
this was Benrimo’s office) hasten to him immediately. 

Benrimo seized his crutches and proceeded to hobble away 
as speedily as could be, but this seemed slow work to the 
impatient gentlemen, who had already been kept waiting 
so long; at a sign from one they seized the old man, lifted 
him on their shoulders and carried him in triumph to the 
door of the duke’s room. This was done so rapidly that 
the worthy interpreter had not even time to he astonished 
before the door flew open and he found himself in the 
presence of the duke. 

“Why did you not come sooner?” asked the duke, 
frowning ominously. 

“ I was in the presence of the King of all kings, and 
.(Could not sooner take my leave,” answered Benrimo. 

This happy answer smoothed out the wrinkles on the 
duke’s brow. 

He had his old comrade take breakfast and then sit 
down beside his bed, all which Benrimo most faithfully 
did. 

Then, in compliance with the duke’s earnest entreaty, 
he lit his pipe and soon the room was filled with fragrant 
clouds of smoke. 

“ My friend,” began the duke, “ I feel that I have not 
much of life left in me; soon, very soon, you will sit on 
my bier, attired in all your military equipments. I have 
adjudged you this post of honor.” 

“ Pshaw, your highness, while there’s life there’s hope,” 
returned Benrimo, vigorously pulling at his pipe; “ such a 
little twinge of gout cannot place stout, vigorous men like 
you and me on the bier all in a minute. Your highness 
knows that I have been troubled with this sickness, 




264 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 


though, of course, I have the advantage of your highness, 
inasmuch as I can have the gout only in one foot.” 

His highness could not resist a smile, and the gentle¬ 
men in waiting rejoiced to see a gleam of light break 
athwart the dark cloud of his ill-humor. But their joy 
was of short duration, for suddenly turning to them the 
duke said: 

“Drones, what do you stand there and stare at me for? 
Away! Benrimo is enough company for me!” 

Much crestfallen, they vanished, and the duke and 
Benrimo were left alone. 

“ Benrimo,” said the duke, “if I were not ashamed, I 
would send for the Black Mask and hear what he says 
about my sickness.” 

“Your highness may do that without scruple,” re¬ 
turned Benrimo; “he is said to be an excellent physician; 
the city continually sings his praises.” 

“ Yes, but—Benrimo, I am almost ashamed to say it— 
there is something supernatural about the Black Mask!” 

“H-m, h-m!” muttered Benrimo; “what have you 
heard about the Black Mask that is supernatural?” 

“ Well, my valet told me that he was seen at the same 
time in three different places in the Ghetto.” 

“ Nonsense, your highness; some one, who knows how 
ready the Jews are to believe in miracles, has played 
off this practical joke by imitating the Black Mask's 
dress.” 

“You may be right, Benrimo; I never thought of that, 
although it is so probable. In your case, my friend, the 
talmudical proverb proves its truth: ‘Where there is 
Torah , there is wisdom/” said the duke, fairly relieved. 

After a pause, Benrimo began: 

“Concerning this physician, there is a question which 
I wished to ask you long ago: Why do you not command 
this mysterious doctor to lay aside his mask and show 
himself as other people do?” 

“ I have given him express permission to wear such a 
mask,” 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


265 


Greatly astonished, Benrimo returned: 

“Then your highness knows him personally?” 

“ I ? No; not at all.” 

“Did he petition your highness?” 

“It is altogether a very odd affair, and I am surprised 
to think I did not confide it to you long ago. But I have 
grown very forgetful of late,” said the duke. “ When I 
think over the matter, it only heightens my distrust of 
the Black Mask.” 

“All this excites my interest, your highness.” 

The duke was much diverted by his friend's curiosity, 
and purposely hesitated in order to increase Benrimo's 
impatience. At last he said: 

“Go to my desk, and look for a yellow paper which 
looks and smells very mildewy. When you have found it, 
read it; it will partly explain the matter to you.” 

Benrimo searched among the duke's papers, and soon 
found the one he had described to him. 

“ This actually smells as if it came from the grave,” 
said he, slowly. “Doesn't it?” 

“ Well, just read it.” 

Benrimo read: 

“ From the grave of the physician. Rabbi Isaac Mun- 
dolfo, in Rome: 

“If his highness, Francis XII., still thinksof the serv¬ 
ice the undersigned once rendered him, he will permit 
the latter's deputy to go about in his highness' city with 
a mask on his face. 

“ Isaac Mundolfo, 

“ Died in the dungeons of the Inquisition at Rome.” 

Benrimo was about to express his contempt of such a 
plain piece of forgery, when he suddenly recollected that 
a person of his faith was mentioned in it, and he did not 
know in what relation the latter stood to the duke. He 
therefore dissembled great astonishment, and uttered sev¬ 
eral ejaculations indicative of surprise. 

“ Yes, yes,” said the duke; “ it is astonishing; all the 
more as there is truth in the letter. This Isaac Mundolfo 


2m THE WIDOW’S SON. 

was the most eminent physician in his time. Ton know 
that I like learned Jews, and I visited this one in his 
dwelling, in the Ghetto, every time I went to Rome. I 
owe my recovery from a very dangerous sickness to him. 
On some idle pretext he was thrown into the dungeons of 
the Inquisition, and there he is said to have died.” 

“ Who brought this letter to your highness?” 

“A most remarkable messenger—a Franciscan friar, 
who declared to me that Mundolfo had given it to him, 
for he had long ago foreseen that some misfortune threat¬ 
ened me and my country, and that this Black Mask could 
avert it, if I placed no obstacles in his way.” 

“ The old gentleman is beginning to be a little child¬ 
ish,” thought Benrimo; “ but I will be silent for the 
present, and try to discover the purpose of this matter, 
which is nothing but a lie from beginning to end.” 

Aloud he said: 

“ And does not your highness wish to send for the: 
Black Mask after such a warm recommendation?” 

“ What do you think, old friend? Come, tell me.” 

“ I would certainly have him come, for it is not to be 1 
denied that there is something curious about this matter.” 

“That is just what I think; and you, Benrimo, shall 
yourself go and summon him. Listen, old friend,” con¬ 
tinued the duke. “Formerly I did not give the least 
credence to such wonderful tales, and now I am perfectly 
set on them. How comes that?” 

“ Old age is the cause of that;—and weakening of the 
mental faculties,” he added, under his breath, 

A short silence ensued. 

The duke broke this, by saying: 

“Now that old age is coming on me, I have thoughts' 
which never troubled me before, and I wish nothing more 
ardently than that I had an heir to succeed me. It 
vexes me to think that my flourishing little country, 
which I have kept in such good order, will fall to the 
emperor.” 


267 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 

“ Yes, your highness, I believe you; but it cannot be 
altered.” 

“If I had not been so obstinate things might have 
been otherwise. But I could not acknowledge my broth¬ 
er's marriage, although his wife was of a noble English 
family. He wrote the most touching letters to me from 
America; I, however, was hard-hearted enough to with¬ 
hold my sanction. He fell in battle, and I never heard 
anything of his wife again. Probably she is dead.” 

“ Did your brother leave any children?” asked Ben- 
rimo. 

“I never knew that he had any; and even if this was 
the case, it would be too late now to institute a search 
for them. It is better so, for my subjects are reconciled 
to the thought of reverting to the emperor after my 
death, and no one ever knew of my brother's marriage, 
excepting myself. Let us drop this disagreeable subject, 
Benrimo. Go, see if there are any letters or petitions 
for me. If so, send them here.” 

Benrimo rang the bell, and a servant came in loaded 
with letters. The duke, according to his usual custom, 
took them up one by one, and after reading each, handed 
it to Benrimo, with some observation or other, which 
the latter marked down on the margin. Suddenly the 
duke uttered a cry of surprise. 

“Look here,” said he, agitatedly; “tidings of my 
brother; he left a child, a son, who is now in this country. 
He came from America with his mentor, for whom 
he begs leave to be admitted to speech with me. As 
credentials he has inclosed the letters I wrote to my 
brother at the time.” 

Benrimo looked at the letters. They were genuine, 
there was not a doubt about that, he knew the duke's 
hand too well. He silently handed them back. 

“Well, why do you not rejoice with me? Do you 
doubt the genuineness of these letters?” 

“For the present—no. It all depends what the future 
will bring forth, your highness, As soon as your high- 


268 THE WIDOW'S SON. 

ness is well enough to leave your bed, you had better see 
this man.” 

“ Oh, you unfeeling, hard-hearted man,” said the duke. 
“In the evening of my life God grants my most ardent 
wish, and you speak of waiting and the future. No, no, 
my Benrimo, you have not spoken wisely this time. Ring 
the hell, quick, I am in a hurry.” 

Benrimo silently did as he was bid. When the servant 
entered, the duke called him: 

“Is the person who brought this letter still in the 
anteroom?” 

“Yes, your highness, a very remarkable man, with a 
face as red as copper.” 

“That is he, that is he; bring him in,” cried the duke, 
excitedly. 

Shortly after, the humpbacked, strangely dressed man 
whom we once saw in Duke street entered the room. 

He immediately sank on his knees by the bedside and 
said with a foreign accent: 

“ The Red Arrow is a great chief, hut bows the knee 
before the hoary chieftain of the pale-faces.” 

The duke's eyes shone with joy. Benrimo remained 
quite passive. 

“Welcome, stranger yet friend; arise! What good 
tidings do you bring?” 

“ The Red Arrow brings the white chieftain greeting 
from the great white warrior long ago went to the 
pleasant hunting-grounds of his white brethern, and 
greeting from the squaw of the great warrior, and from 
the White Eagle Alfred, the noble son of the white 
chieftain, whom his white brothers called ‘Wimmer- 
stein' and his red brothers the ' White Panther.'” 

“And where is your ward, the White Eagle?” asked 
the duke, who had great difficulty in understanding the 
figurative speech of the Indian. 

“The Red Arrow knew not if the White Eagle would 
be welcome to hl§ relative; therefore he sped on in ad- 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 269 

vance to see and question if his eyes would look with favor 
on the White Eagle.” 

“ Hasten, my friend, hasten,” cried the duke, almost 
beside himself, “ I have perchance but a few more days to^ 
live, and much still remains to be done.” 

The Indian seemed very well acquainted with court eti¬ 
quette, for, without answering a word, he bowed, and 
stepping backward to the door, left the duke's apart¬ 
ment. 

The duke opened his mouth and was about to address 
Benrimo, who was sitting very thoughtfully by the bed, 
and smoking very industriously, when the servant once 
more came in with a handful of papers. 

“ What are those, Klas?” asked his highness, provoked 
at his interruption. 

“ Death-warrants, your highness,” returned Klas, in a 
sepulchral voice. 

“I shall sign no death-warrants to-day, Klas. But 
stay. Whose are these? You seem to ha\e a perfect pile 
of them.” 

“They are the warrants of the captain's band.” 

“Give them here, Klas—there, hold the inkstand; 
these rogues have troubled me enough. For years and 
years they rendered my country unsafe, and just to-day, I 
will send them to the gallows, so that my successor will 
find the land purged of them. But where is the warrant 
of the ringleader, Trumpcard?” 

“Does not your highness recollect that he was not 
captured, and that the police scour the country for him in 
vain?” 

“ Oh, yes,” said the duke, continuing to write assidu¬ 
ously; “I recollect; my head is so weak nowadays. 
Who put us on the track of these rascals?” 

“A complete list of the criminals with the place of 
their concealment was sent to the head of the police.” 

“Yes, yes, Klas, I recollect; it must have been one of 
the band who betrayed them.” 

“ One of the band—they call him Devil's Fred, and he 


270 . THE WIDOW'S SON. 

is the most expert counterfeiter of them all—maintains 
that it was Trumpcard himself who betrayed them.” 

“Perhaps, perhaps,” returned the duke absently, his 
thoughts again wholly with the Indian. 

“Does your highness know,” said Klas, gathering the 
signed death-warrants, “ that Devil’s Pred says he knows 
who Trumpcard actually is?” 

“Who, Klas?” 

“ I do not believe it myself,” said Klas, hesitatingly, 
“all the more as the rest of the hand concur in the state¬ 
ment, hut still it may he so.” 

The duke had become attentive again; he knew Klas’ 
peculiarity of hesitating, when he had anything disagree¬ 
able to communicate; therefore he said: 

“Do not he afraid, Klas, speak out.” 

“Well, then, do not let it startle your highness,” said 
Klas; “Trumpcard is—so DeviPs Fred says—no other 
than Egmont of Weiden, the expelled cadet.” 

“Just heavens!” cried the duke, and Benrimo almost 
fell to the floor, for in his fright he had forgotten his 
wanting leg, and had sprung up from his chair. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

TWO OLD FRIEKDS FORM AN ALLIANCE. 

Four weeks had elapsed since the events described in 
the last chapter. Through the whole duchy the surprising 
news was spread, that a nephew of the duke had come 
from America, that he would probably be the successor 
to the throne, and that the duke even had it in mind to 
resign in favor of his nephew, as soon as his acknowl¬ 
edgment by the emperor had taken place, for which he 
had already instituted all necessary steps. 

The young prince, as a matter of course, was domiciled 
in the duke’s palace, and all who had seen and conversed 
with him were charmed by his amiability and condescen¬ 
sion. 

In truth, this young prince was a most beautiful young 
jnan. The color of his face was somewhat dark^ as were 




271 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 

also the curls which fell to his shoulders; his figure was 
rather delicate, a small mustache adorned his upper lip, 
and gave a saucy appearance to his face. His eyes indeed 
might have been better; they were too light a blue, and 
protruded a little too much from their sockets. 

As in all extraordinary cases, many stories circulated 
concerning the prince and his uncle, the duke. Thus it 
was whispered about that the prince, on the occasion of 
his being presented to his uncle by the humpbacked 
Indian, had trembled very much, and been hardly able 
to keep his feet; and it was even maintained that terror 
had forced drops of perspiration to his brow, which had 
been plainly seen by people who were present at the time. 
The presentation had taken place in the duke's bedroom, 
as his impatience would not permit him to put it off until 
such time when he could be able to leave his bed. 

Of course the youth's agitation was ascribed to the im¬ 
pressions made on him by the uncle he had never seen, 
his ignorance of court life, and the astonishment with 
which the splendor of all he saw filled the “ half-savage," 
as he was universally called. Gradually, however, this 
uneasiness disappeared, especially when the duke, after 
attentively regarding him for awhile, cried out: 

“ Truly, I would have acknowledged this young man as 
my nephew, without any other proof than the striking 
resemblance he bears to my deceased brother." 

A few veteran officers who had known the duke's 
brother did not concur in this opinion; but who would 
dare dispute a duke's word? Besides, the duke, who was 
brought up with his brother, ought to remember him 
better than people who had but casually seen and spoken 
with him. 

Another of the prince's peculiarities was that he re¬ 
jected all the attendants the duke assigned to him, and 
refused to inhabit tlie splendid suit of apartments ; in 
front of the palace which had been selected for him. He 
took possession of a few rooms in a side wing, and was at¬ 
tended only by his mentor, the old humpbacked Indian, 


272 THE WIDOW'S SOD. 

who guarded him jealously, and lay before his door at 
night, with his tomahawk within reach. 

Again the prince, though of a jovial temperment, was 
possessed of such delicate nerves that he could not bear 
to see a doctor beside a sick-bed, and invariably hastily 
retired when the duke’s physician was announced. 

The latter had now for some time been the Black 
Mask, whom the duke had summoned on the day after 
his nephew’s arrival. Since he had submitted to his 
treatment the duke’s health had improved noticeably, 
and he hoped soon to be fully recovered. 

* sje % * * * 

The Black Mask sat in his office, waiting for those who 
come to him for help. A fair-haired boy was playing 
about the room; from time to time he ran up to the doc¬ 
tor, who seemed in a very thoughtful mood, caressed him 
and chatted with him. Each time the latter was the 
case, the doctor would reprove the child for the jargon he 
spoke in, and repeat to him the proper way it ought to 
be said, which the boy, however, never remembered. 

“ Why can’t a pody speak like they to in the Ghetto?” 
asked the boy, impatiently. 

“ It is not proper for you to do so, my son,” returned 
the Black Mask, gently. “I have already told you that 
your parents are of noble lineage, and you will soon be 
restored to them. By that time you must be able to 
speak in a manner which will not make you an object of 
ridicule to all Gentiles.” 

“ I am no count,” cried the boy, peevishly; “ I am 
Pinkus’ poy from the Ghetto, and I suppose you’ll pring 
me pack there when I am well again.” 

The doctor was about to return an answer, when the 
door was opened, and a servant ushered in Benrimo. 

“Welcome, thrice welcome, my. dear sir,” cried the 
Black Mask, joyously, stretching forth both his hands to 
the old gentleman, and leading him to a chair, while he 
sat down beside him. 

“ I suppose you are curious to know the cause of my 



THE WIDOW'S SON. 


273 


coming here to-day, doctor? I have not only learned to 
prize your skill, but, taking such a liking to you, I feel 
that I can confide in you. Your voice sounds as familiar 
and pleasing to my ears as the voice of an old, tried 
friend; and yet I am certain that I never met you before. 
I have come to-day to take you into my confidence, albeit 
a man as old and as experienced in the ways of the 
world as I ought not to trust his secret to a man whose 
face he has never seen, not to mention the fact of his 
not even knowing his name.” 

Without returning a word, the Black Mask applied a 
silver whistle to his mouth, nd its shrill sound soon 
brought a servant to the room. 

“Take away the child,” said the Black Mask. 

Benrimo's attention was attracted to the child, and ex¬ 
pressing his admiration of the boy's beauty, he asked: 

“Is this your child, doctor?” 

“No; it belongs to an acquaintance of yours, Rabbi 
Benrimo!” 

“Of mine? To whom? I cannot remember having 
ever seen the boy. ” 

The physician raised his hand, and took off his mask 
for a moment. 

“Great Heavens!” cried Benrimo, “is it possible; you 
are-” 

“ Sh—sh,” said the physician, replacing his mask; 
“ now you not only know my face, but my name. Well, 
why do you not embrace me, sir?” 

Tears gushed from the old man's eyes as he affection¬ 
ately embraced the young physician. 

“But, tell me, how has all this come about?” asked 
Benrimo, after he had somewhat recovered from his as¬ 
tonishment and joy. 

“At the time when this mask falls from my face for¬ 
ever, all will be made clear to you, Rabbi Benrimo. But 
now that you know, you can trust in me; tell me the 
purpose of your visit.” 


274 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


“ Listen, then. I am afraid that all is not as it should 
be, about the young prince.” 

“Indeed!” asked the Black Mask, astonished, “ what 
gives you reason to think so?” 

“ Well, on the whole there is actually nothing to make 
me think so, but still I suspect him.” 

“Why, are not the proofs of his identity sufficiently 
satisfactory?” 

“Yes, and no,” said Benrimo. “A person will not 
wait twenty years, if he thinks he has pretensions, to a 
throne. The duke is ill, and not so sound in judgment 
as I, else he would have been struck by this, as well as by 
many other matters that surprise me.” 

“But have you not drawn the attention of the duke, 
whose right hand you are, to this?” 

Benrimo sighed, then said: 

“ Since the prince and his Indian are at court, my in¬ 
fluence with the duke has decreased daily, and it will not 
be long ere he will grow altogether tired of the inter¬ 
preter, and send him to the Ghetto.” 

The Black Mask reflected silently for awhile, then 
said: 

“I really have no opinion in this matter, for I have 
not even seen the young prince.” 

“That, also, is another of my observations. However 
engrossed in conversation the prince may be, when you 
are announced, he leaves the room in strange haste. His 
pretense that he cannot bear to see a physician beside a 
sick-bed is perfectly ridiculous; I cannot help thinking 
that he has some cause to fear you, and for this very 
reason I wish that you could see him. ” 

“I can remember the Indian very well,” returned the 
Black Mask, thoughtfully. “ I saw him when he arrived 
in the city, but at that time, the pretender was not there, 
or else I took no notice of him in the crowd. The Indian 
did not seem at all out of the way to me.” 

“Well, the prince is so all the more, and I entreat you 
to see him.” 


275 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 

“ But how can I bring this about, if, as you say, he 
always hastily beats a retreat when I am announced?” 

“ Come with me now. The prince is generally with 
his highness at this hour. I will tell the servant to 
announce me only; you shall step in behind me.” 

“But what cause shall I state for a visit to the duke at 
this unusual time? It is now late in the afternoon, and 
I always go to him in the morning.” 

“Tell his highness that you wish to change the pre¬ 
scription you gave him this morning. He will take the 
excuse graciously.” 

“That will do,” said the Black Mask; “come, let us 
go immediately.” 

The servant helped the Black Mask on with his cloak, 
and he and Benrimo entered the carriage which rapidly 
conveyed them to the palace. As Benrimo had planned, 
they did. 

The physician entered the duke’s apartment behind 
Benrimo, and was so well covered by the latter’s colossal 
frame that both were in the center of the room before 
he was observed. 

The young prince was chatting in a lively tone to his 
uncle; but when his eyes fell on the Black Mask, who 
appeared to have risen from the ground before him, he 
broke off in the middle of a word, and fell into a violent 
fit of trembling. His hands shook as with an ague, and 
his eyes protruded even more than usually from their 
sockets. 

The duke, very much astonished, though not displeased, 
asked what brought his doctor at such an unusual hour; 
the latter answered as Benrimo had bidden him, without, 
however, for a moment turning his eyes from the young 
prince, who grew more and more embarrassed. 

As Benrimo had said, the duke was well pleased with 
the doctor’s excuse, the latter’s care gratified him. He 
began a conversation with the Black Mask, during the 
progress of which the young prince endeavored to slip 
off, but the doctor maneuvered so skillfully as to gain a 


276 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


perfect view of his face before he succeeded in escaping. 

Had the Black Mask heard what the prince muttered 
as the door closed behind him, he could not so composedly 
have continued his conversation with the duke. 

Benrimo impatiently awaited the time when the duke 
would dismiss his physician; when it at length arrived, 
he begged for permission to accompany the Black Mask. 

“Well,” asked he, when both were once more in the 
carriage, “ do you know the prince?” 

“ I know him.” 

“Is he a prince or an impostor?” 

“He is an impostor,” briefly answered the doctor. 

“ Will you unmask him?” 

“ When the time will have come, yes. But, Rabbi 
Benrimo, as you value your life, and the lives of thou¬ 
sands of Jews in this city, betray not a syllable of what I 
have told you.” 

“ I can be silent,” Benrimo solemnly said. 

The Black Mask invited Benrimo to come to his office, 
when the latter again saw the beautiful fair-haired boy, 
and immediately recurred to the former conversation 
about him. 

“ My dear doctor,” began Benrimo, “you said before 
that this child belongs to one of my acquaintances. Will 
you not explain this more clearly ?” 

“ Certainly; he is the heir of the Count of Weiden.” 

For a moment Benrimo looked at the Black Mask in 
Silent amazement. Then he said: 

“How comes it that you have him here?” 

The Black Mask proceeded to relate how he had found 
the child in a tavern laying lifeless on the floor, had 
taken it home, and, with the aid of another doctor, re¬ 
stored it to health. 

“ More I cannot tell you, for an oath I once took 
begins to lay its fetters on my tongue,” continued the 
doctor. 

“You need tell me no more; I guessed the rest long 
ago, and counseled the Countess of Weiden to fly from 



THE WIDOW'S SON. 


277 

the machinations of the Baroness Weiden and Baron 
Witzleb, although at the time I did not mention these by 
name. I was certain that none but these had stolen the 
young heir, in order to gain possession of his inheritance.” 

It was now the Black Mask's turn to be astonished. 

“That reminds me," said he, smiling, “ of the explan¬ 
ation you once gave to a little hoy about prophet and 
prophecies." 

“ But why do you not restore the child to its mother, 
who would certainly welcome him most gladly?" asked 
Benrimo. 

“ She does not want him," said the Black Mask. “I 
offered the child to her at the time her husband was still 
living; she rejected it, and threatened to complain of me 
to the police did I not leave her in peace." 

“ I cannot comprehend this," ejaculated Benrimo. 

“Oh, it's easy to comprehend it; she thinks I am an 
impostor; a woman whose evil aspect aroused my disgust 
the first time I saw her, has probably maligned me to the 
countess." 

“ And can you imagine who this woman is?" asked 
Benrimo, in suspense. 

“ Yes, at least I suspect it." 

“Well, I am quite certain," cried Benrimo, “this 
woman is the Baroness Weiden." 

“I thought so, too; but this woman occupies the posi¬ 
tion of a servant, and I believe that she is some creature 
commissioned by the baroness." 

“No, no; it is she herself in some disguise," cried 
Benrimo. “ The sooner she is unmasked the better; the 
countess is in bad hands." 

“ Where are you going?" cried the Black Mask, as Ben¬ 
rimo rose hastily from the chair. 

“ To the Countess of Weiden, my friend." 

“At such an unseemly hour?" 

“ And were it midnight I would go! God be with you, 
my frjend." And Beprimo hobbled off as fast as he 
could. 


278 . THE WIDOW'S SON. 

Hardly an hour subsequently, Benrimo's carriage again 
stopped before the physician's house. The servant could 
not assist him up the stairs fast enough for his impa¬ 
tience. The doctor was in his private room, to which 
the servant did not dare to admit Benrimo; but the" vig¬ 
orous old man pushed him to one side, and opened the 
door. 

He hesitated a moment when he saw a Franciscan friar 
in the company of the Black Mask. But the latter hast¬ 
ily arose and asked: 

“ For God's sake, what has happened?" 

“ Hasten, hasten—the Countess of Weiden is dying!" 

The physician seized his hat, and turning to the monk, 
cried: 

“ Come, Father Anselmo. We require your assist¬ 
ance!" 

The three hastened down-stairs as fast as Benrimo's 
crutches would permit, and a minute later the carriage 
was rolling at a furious rate of speed over the stone pave¬ 
ments of the city streets, out into the country, 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

ALMOST TOO LATE. 

Bemrimo's carriage drew up before the portals of Count 
Weiden's park. The porter opened the gate, and the ve¬ 
hicle rolled rapidly up to the villa. Before the Black 
Mask, who was the first to alight, had time to raise the 
knocker, the door was opened, and a woman, apparently 
anxious and inquisitive as to the cause of such noise at an 
hour so unseemly, made her appearance. Hardly had she 
recognized, by the light which streamed out from the 
wall, who it was that stood before her, than she uttered 
a loud cry, and attempted to close the door; but the 
Black Mask, who had anticipated this maneuver, opposed 
her, and, assisted by the exertions of his two friends, who 
had by this time joined him, the door was soon pushed 
open, and the three entered the house. 

When thq woman perceiyed that sho could not keep 



THE WIDOW'S SON. 279 

back the intruders, she broke into loud cries of “ Mur¬ 
der—thieves—fire!” which soon brought a number of do¬ 
mestics, both male and female, to the scene of disturb¬ 
ance. But here were three powerful agents which pre¬ 
vented their interfering, and, like the knights of the fairy¬ 
tale, turned them into stone. First, a monk, a person 
who at that time was regarded by the lower classes with 
the most profound veneration; then the well-known “ in¬ 
terpreter ” of the duke, a man to whom one had but to 
turn if desirous of a favor from the duke—and such a man 
might not be insulted with impunity; and, lastly, the 
mysterious Black Mask, the terror and delight of all ghost- 
loving gossips. 

The united population of the city would have been 
powerless against this extraordinary trio—what, then, 
-could these few servants do? 

When the woman saw the impression this dreaded trio 
produced on the servants, she endeavored to slip off:, but 
felt herself held by a strong hand, and, looking up, caught 
sight of the face, distorted by rage and contempt, of 
Father Anselmo. 

“ Lead us to the sick-bed of the countess,” he com¬ 
manded, in a stern tone, “or I, who have recognized 
you, will hang you to the posts of this door with my own 
hands!” 

With a tottering step, and firmly held by the enraged 
friar’s hand, the nurse ascended the stairs. The physi¬ 
cian and Benrimo followed, while the trembling do¬ 
mestics, who had not yet recovered from their terror, 
brought uj3 the rear. The woman led the way into a 
room which was dimly lighted by a lamp hanging from 
the ceiling. 

On a couch could be indistinctly seen a female figure, 
writhing in pain. 

“ Lights!” shouted Benrimo, in a voice as loud as if he 
were commanding a battalion. 

The servants rushed off, and soon the room was brightly 
lit up. Father Anselmo and the Black Mask stepped up 


280 ' THE WIDOW'S SON. 

to the couch, regarded the lady, and simultaneously cried 
out: 

“Poisoned!” 

The terrible word was taken up and repeated by the 
pale lips of all assembled in the room. 

“We come too late,” muttered the Black Mask; “she 
is already unconscious.” 

“ I almost fear so,” said Father Anselmo; “if my new 
remedy fails, she is lost.” 

The friar drew from his habit a small case, and, open¬ 
ing it, disclosed about one hundred tiny vials. His prac¬ 
ticed glance immediately found the one he wanted; with 
a sure hand, he poured a single drop on a spoon, and, 
mixing it with a little water, infused the portion into the 
mouth of the countess, while the Black Mask held apart 
her rigidly closed teeth. But suddenly Father Anselmo 
seemed to recollect something, for h? looked searchingly 
about the room; she whom he sought had vanished. 

“Away!” cried he to the servants, who were still in the 
room; “away! search for the woman who conducted us 
hither! You ought not to have let her go, for it is she 
who poisoned the countess. Look for her, and if you find 
her, clutch her firmly, for she must be delivered up for 
justice.” 

The servants immediately dispersed, and soon their 
searching steps and low cries to each other could be heard 
echoing in the spacious house. 

Father Anselmo took up his post at the lady’s head, 
and the Black Mask stood at her feet, attentively mark¬ 
ing every breath that passed her pallid lips, while Ben- 
rimo was leaning on his crutch in the center of the room. 
It was a touching and at the same time an unearthly 
scene—two mysterious men, the one with his face envel¬ 
oped in the folds of a monkish cowl; the face of the other 
covered by a black mask, sternly and sadly watching by 
the couch on which a blooming, high-born woman strug¬ 
gled with death; and in the center of the room the 
colossal figure of Benrimo—in whose gold-embroidered 



THE WIDOW’S SON. 


281 

uniform, and many decorations, the lights danced and 
sparkled—standing solemn and motionless, like a statue 
of war, whose business is death, bewailing the sacrifice of 
this fair young life. 

The moaning of the suffering lady, and the ticking of 
the clock against the wall, seemingly hastening on to 
keep pace with the flying pulse of the sufferer, were for a 
long, long time the only sounds that broke the dread 
silence in the room, in which Death waved his freezing 
pinions. 

Suddenly there was a thrilling, awful cry, apparently 
from the most remote part of the house, and this was 
repeated by many voices. Immediately after, rapid steps 
were heard approaching the room, and several servants 
came in with deadly pale faces, and related, with trem¬ 
bling lips, that the nurse, after long searching, had at last 
been found in one of the attics, where she had concealed 
herself behind a pile of rubbish. Hardly did she find her¬ 
self discovered than she darted with the agility of a cat to 
the gable-window, and, before any of them even thought 
of the possibility of such an undertaking, climbed out, 
and, with a dreadful cry, precipitated herself from the 
roof. 

There was a trampling of feet ascending the stairs, and 
Father Anselmo, hastening to the door, beheld a ghastly 
burden, which was being slowly borne in his direction. 
He signed to the bearers to deposit it on the floor of the 
hall, and, bending down, proceeded to examine it. He 
drew off the cap on the head, and, stroking back the 
brown hair, he was not greatly astonished to find it 
remaining in his hands, while scanty whitish locks came 
to view beneath it. 

At the same time two voices cried: 

“The Baroness Weiden of Immenfeld.” 

Yes, it was indeed the woman whose crimes were about 
countless, the woman who had once ruined a whole 
family because its head would not abet her in crime, the 
woman who had wished to let the Jewish widow and her 


282 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


son starve in her dungeons, the woman who had murdered 
her relatives to gain for the son, who had attacked her, 
an inheritance which was not rightfully his; and this 
woman now lay a mutilated mass on the floor of the corri¬ 
dor which led to the room where her latest victim, the 
Countess of Weiden, lay struggling with death. 

“ God is just!” said Father Anselmo, as he arose from 
the dead body and signed to the servants to bear it away. 

\ They returned in silence to the sick-room ; not a word was 
exchanged concerning the dreadful discovery that had 
just been made; the suffering lady absorbed all their at¬ 
tention. There was no sensible improvement in her con¬ 
dition, and Father Anselmo tried another drop of his 
elixir. 

Once more the physicians sat in stern silence by the 
bedside, while Benrimo, who had taken a seat at the table 
in the center of the room, carelessly played with a silver 
casket that stood on it. It was not locked, the lid fell 
back, and disclosed a number of papers. 

Benrimo absently glanced at them, when his eyes were 
suddenly riveted by something he saw on one. 

Seizing it, he unfolded it, and was soon absorbed by its 
contents. 

“Remarkable, most remarkable!” he muttered again 
and again, “ where have I heard the name mentioned in 
this baptismal certificate? Strange, strange! a Jewish 
name and a Christian certificate. Where did I hear—ah! 
I recollect, the duke spoke of it in connection with— 
with—I have it—with the Black Mask.” 

“Doctor,” said Benrimo, almost loud, “can you 
tell me something concerning the name Isaac Mun- 
dolfo?” 

The Franciscan Friar and the Black Mask started 
violently, and both arose, when a low cry from the couch 
diverted their attention. 

The sick lady lay very quietly, the convulsions had 
ceased, and her large blue eyes were fixed with a conscious 
but inexpressibly terrified expression on the Black Mask, 



THE WIDOW'S SON 


283 


Soon they wandered to the friar, and with a pleading look 
at him turned again to the object of her dread. The lat¬ 
ter immediately understood her, and stepped back, though 
very unwillingly. The friar signed to him and Benrimo 
to leave the room, for the sick lady had whispered to him 
that she wished to prepare for death. She could not 
think otherwise than that the monk had been sent for 
to hear her last confession. Father Anselmo, in order 
not to excite her, humored her wish and prepared to 
listen. 

In the meanwhile Benrimo and the Black Mask who 
had retired to an adjacent room, conversed, as may be 
easily imagined, about the events of the evening, and the 
sudden end which had been put to the Baroness Wei- 
den’s machinations. 

Benrimo now thought it high time that he should be 
told something of the Black Mask’s adventures, and his 
astonishment knew no bounds when he heard things 
which he would lf^ er have even dreamed of as being 
possible. His life in comparison seemed a mere cipher. 

But the Black Mask did not tell Benrimo that Father 
Anselmo, for whom the old soldier conceived a most in¬ 
tense veneration, was a baptized Jew, and Benrimo was 
greatly surprised that a Franciscan friar could act so un¬ 
selfishly, and commit such a sin as to tear a proselyte 
from the arms of the Church. 

The night advanced, and still all was silent in the sick¬ 
room. The two friends grew uneasy as hour after hour 
passed and no news came from the patient. One of the 
servants slipped in every now and then to inquire about 
their mistress. 

At last the sun already threw its first rays on the 
beautiful landscape and on the villa, which looked so 
calm and peaceful, and yet held much crime and suffering 
within its walls; the Black Mask s anxiety would permit 
him to wait no longer, and he arose and crept to the door 
of the sick-room where he listened intently for some 
sound. Suddenly he started and drew back hastily. 


284 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


Benrimo anxiously asked: 

“Did you hear anything?” 

“ Yes, I heard the heavy sobs of a man, and a womans 
convulsive weeping. Oh! it must have been a dreadful 
confession to make a man like Father Anselmo shed 
tears.” 

“Who can know,” returned Benrimo, “what dark 
deeds lie buried in the heart of man, not to be revealed 
until the last day shall bring them to light? But let us 
speak of something else; it always oppresses me to think that 
a person, in order to get rid of the load of his consience, 
confides it to the bosom of another, thus making him an 
accomplice and part bearer, as it were, of his burden. 
For this reason I always consider confession as a desecra¬ 
tion of the human heart; it demoralizes the one who con¬ 
fesses, and makes a priest, who is conscientious, unhappy 
for life by overwhelming him with the dark secrets of 
his fellow-being; while it gains for the unprincipled 
priest a terrible dominion over thosS whose secrets he 
knows.” 

“ Father Anselmo is not of your opinion,” returned the 
Black Mask; “he maintains that all the grandeur of the 
Catholic Church consists in this, and that by this means 
she gains the allegiance of her subjects.” 

“ Then Father Anselmo thinks as I do,” eagerly re¬ 
turns Benrimo; “ in the confessional lies the might of 
the Catholic Church, and that is just the misfortune. In 
Rome every word becomes known that a prince or min¬ 
ister has intrusted to his father confessor, and the Pope 
holds the destinies of nations in his hand, being enabled 
by betrayed secrets of the confessional to govern kings 
and princes as if they were puppets, while leaving them 
to think they act only according to their own royal 
pleasure. But let us drop this subject; tell me, rather, 
what you know concerning the name Isaac Mundolfo?” 

“Whence know you that name?” returned the Black 
Mask, “and what leads you to think I know anything 
of it?” 




TIIE WIDOW'S SON. 


285 


“ I heard it for the first time when the duke spoke to 
me about you. His highness permitted me to read a let¬ 
ter signed by the name of Isaac Mundolfo. This evening 
I found a paper that lay in a casket in the sick-room, and 
on it was written the name Isaac Mundolfo. My curios¬ 
ity being excited by this, I unfolded the paper and found 
that it was a baptismal certificate, drawn up at Rome in 
favor of-" 

The shrill tinkle of a bell resounded from the sick¬ 
room, and the Black Mask hastily followed the summons, 
while Benrimo, whose curiosity in regard to the name of 
Isaac Mundolfo was again disappointed, hobbled after 
him and found him politely waiting at the door of the 
room, which they now both entered together. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 

When Benrimo and the Black Mask entered the sick¬ 
room, they found Father Anselmo sitting beside the 
couch of the countess. His right hand held both the 
lady's, while the other lay affectionately on her beautiful 
golden curls. Although Anselmo's eyes were swollen 
with weeping, his face bore an expression of indescribable 
bliss, while the blue eyes of the countess rested with in¬ 
finite love and veneration on the monk's countenance. 

“Do not be afraid, my love," said Father Anselmo, 
softly, as be observed the terrified look that crept into 
her eyes as she caught sight of the Black Mask, “ this 
man is my friend, and all my secrets are known to him; 
I have more confidence in him, than in any other person 
in all the world, and his name will yet become famous in 
the land. He was maligned to you because he knew the 
designs of your enemies and wished to frustrate them; 
look at him as your brother." 

“You regard me with astonishment, my friends," con¬ 
tinued he, turning to Benrimo and the Black Mask; “yea, 
God has performed a miracle; join me in praising Him, 




236 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 




but not that God to whom I and this patient sufferer 
seemed devoted, not that God who incites men to perse¬ 
cute and harm their fellow-beings, but praise the only 
and mighty God of Israel, who has vouchsafed me, the 
apostate, the happiness of finding my child. Yes, yes, 
Joseph, down with your mask, that my Ella, my beloved 
child, may look into your dear honest eyes; I have found 
her; the Countess Matilda of Weiden is Ella, the daugh¬ 
ter of Isaac Mundolfo!” 

The Black Mask tore the covering from his face, and, 
falling on his knees before the countess, kissed her deli¬ 
cate hands amidst streaming tears, while the sick lady 
looked with astonishment at the manly beauty of the 
young man’s face, and could not suppress a faint smile as 
she thought how dreadful her imagination had pictured it. 

Then Joseph repeatedly embraced his dear teacher, and 
old Benrimo was made acquainted with the remarkable 
destinies of father and daughter. 

“God is great,” said he when he heard all; “and as it 
is written, he gathers his people from the ends of the 
world. ‘Who turneth the heart of the fathers to the 
children, and the heart of the children to the fathers/ 
How wonderfully has He ordained it that three Jews meet 
at the sick bed of a fourth who was robbed from them, 
and thus every foreign element is excluded.” 

Joseph felt the pulse of the countess and became con¬ 
vinced that she was out of all danger, although so weak 
that she could hardly utter a sound. Then he whispered 
to Father Ansel mo that he required his advice in an 
important matter; the reader will easily imagine in what. 

When Father Anselmo arose to accompany Joseph from 
the room, the countess pleadingly whispered the word— 

“ Father!” 

The monk pressed his hand on his swelling heart, as he 
heard this word from the mouth of his recovered treasure. 
For years and years he had been used to being addressed 
a hundred of times daily by the title “Father,” yet this 
single whispered appeal held more of happiness to him 






287 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 

than the numberless times he had been called by that 
name. 

“ Be composed, my dear Ella; I shall soon be back; in 
the meanwhile Benrimo, who proved himself your friend 
years ago, shall take my place by your side.” 

Anselmo and Joseph—the latter resuming his mask— 
repaired to the room in which the latter, with Benrimo, 
had passed most of the night, and here teacher and pupil 
again embraced each other in overflowing joy. 

“ I know why you wish to speak to me,” then said 
Father Anselmo; “you wish to bring her son to the 
countess, to my Ella.” 

“ You have divined it, my dear teacher, and I wish to 
know if this can be done without danger to her?” 

“ Till now,” returned Father Anselmo, “ I have care¬ 
fully refrained from mentioning the child to my daugh¬ 
ter. The scenes of this night; her confession, which 
made me the happiest man in the world, by revealing to 
me the secret her husband had told her with his dying 
breath, and our subsequent recognition of each other, 
have so exhausted her little strength that more excite¬ 
ment would certainly prove dangerous. I have not even 
disclosed to Ella who her nurse really was, nor the dread¬ 
ful death she met with. I will now take leave of Ella for 
a few hours and repair to your house in order to prepare 
all necessary medicines for her. There we can discuss 
this matter more at length.” 

“ Very well, I shall wait for you.” 

The morning was now far advanced, and a servant camo 
to summon the gentlemen to a breakfast which had been, 
prepared for them. The sick lady also partook of a few 
morsels, and then a messenger was dispatched to the> 
city to notify the authorities of the events that had trans-. 
pired in the villa (regarding the suicide of the nurse, etc).. 

The Black Mask—for now that he has resumed his ; 
mask we must call him so again—sent another servant to 
his house for his carriage and Margareth, the nurse who 
had waited upon the little boy. When she arrived, ho 


288 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


bound her to silence concerning her little charge, and 
having given her all due instructions, and seen her 
installed beside the lady's bed, he urged his friend to de¬ 
part. Benrimo, also, who did not wish to miss his morn¬ 
ing prayer, pressed Father Anselmo to go. 

When the latter bent over his daughter's couch to take 
leave of her, she twined her arms around his neck, and 
kissing him tenderly, whispered: 

“ Father." 

For Benrimo and the Black Mask she had a warm 
pressure of the hand and a sweet smile. 

When the three companions and allies in all that is 
good and noble were in the carriage, the Black Mask 
said: 

“ Father Anselmo, you still owe me a continuation of 
the story you once told me concerning Isaac Mundolfo." 

“Yes, yes," said Benrimo, “1 should like to know in 
what manner the name Isaac Mundolfo is connected 
with- 

But it seemed that the old gentleman was never to have 
his curiosity appeased, for Father Anselmo, apparently 
quite disregarding these words, said: 

“I understand yon, my son; you think, and rightly 
think, that my daughter has solved me the riddle how 
she became a countess; but as I cannot tell you this 
in the presence of this gentleman, whom it will not in¬ 
terest, as he does not know all that has gone before, I 
commission you to make him acquainted with my story 
whenever he will have the time to listen to it, and I will 
then tell the continuation to both of you." 

The carriage had by this time reached the ducal pal¬ 
ace, and Benrimo was set down at the main entrance. 
Father Anselmo accompanied the Black Mask to the lat¬ 
ter's house. Arrived there, he patiently awaited the 
opening of the door, and with youthful agility flew up 
the stairs to the boy’s room. 

The little fellow was still asleep, but Father Anselmo's 
kisses awoke him. Hardly had he opened his eyes and 



THE WIDOW’S SON. 


289 


seen the figure that bent over him, than an expression of 
dislike came over his pretty face, and he muttered: 

Go away; you're a Galah (priest)!" 

“ Ah!" said the friar, softly, “the blood betrays itself 
Jewish blood will run in the veins in the third and fourth 
generations." Then he said, aloud: 

“Don't you like a Galah?" 

“No, no; they are bad to the Jews in the Ghetto; they 
dislike all of them, and treat them badly." 

“But I have been told that you are no Jew." 

“Yes, so they said to me, and called me a Christian; 
but I always felt like a Jew, and always kept the com¬ 
mandments of God. And," the boy continued to chat, 
“I have been told that I am a count. Oh, what non¬ 
sense! I know that a Jew can't be a count." 

“ Wouldn't you like to be a count?" 

“ If I must be a Christian first, I don’t want to be a 
count. I've got a Hebrew name, and I dislike the Gala- 
him." 

Father Anselmo smiled, well pleased, then he said: 

“ What is your name, my child?" 

“ Benoni—that means child of pain, Pinkus says, for I 
caused Pinkus much grief." 

“Would you like to have me for your grandfather?" 
softly asked Father Anselmo, kissing the struggling boy. 

“If you will not be a Galah, I shall like to have you 
for a grandfather; but if you want to be my grandfather, 
you must give me a mother; for, while all the boys of this 
street have mothers, I had none. First, Pinkus was my 
mother, and now comes a Galah and wants to be my 
grandfather. Oh, how silly!" 

Father Anselmo held out his hand to the boy, which 
the latter very reluctantly took, and then descended with 
him to the laboratory, where he prepared the medicines 
for the Countess of Weiden. 

The Black Mask had driven out to visit the duke and 
his other patients, When he returned home, he found 


290 THE WIDOW'S SON. 

Father Anselmo waiting for him, with a rather serious 
face. 

“What makes you.look so gloomy, father?” asked Jo¬ 
seph, wonderingly. “ I should think you had no cause 
for it.” 

“ I am just thinking how it will dampen my Ella’s joy 
—she who is so extremely accomplished, and used only to 
the most refined society—when we will bring her her 
child in such a neglected condition. Why, the boy speaks 
in a manner used only in the Ghetto, although he pos¬ 
sesses a good deal of natural wit.” 

“ That is certainly unfortunate, father; but the moth¬ 
er’s love will speedily overlook such a fault, especially as 
it is one which may be corrected in a few months.” 

“But it will lessen the mother’s joy considerably at 
first.” 

“You are mistaken, father. Was the Countess of Wei- 
den ashamed to acknowledge her father because he is a 
baptized Jew?” 

“No, no; she made me happy by the joy which she 
displayed, although she confessed that when she first 
heard the story of her birth the shock caused her a faint¬ 
ing-fit.” 

“Well,” returned Joseph, “just put yourself in the 
place of a highly accomplished lady, the wife of a count, 
and, as she believes, the daughter of a baron, and the 
poor lady’s horror will not seem so improbable to you.” 

“You are right, my son, as you always are—but what 
does the servant want?” 

The latter announced Benrimo, who immediately after 
made his appearance, and briefly saluting the Black 
Mask, hastened to the monk, seized both his hands, and 
heartily pressing them, cried in a warm tone: 

“ Permit me thus to express my pleasure at making 
your acquaintance, Rabbi Isaac Mundolfo. I have shed 
tears over your unhappy past, and sent a thanksgiving to 
the Almighty, who had at last blessed you with happi¬ 
ness, as misfortune was tired of persecuting you further*” 



THE WIDOW'S SON. 

“ You know all?” asked Father Anselmo, surprised. 

“ Yes,” interpolated the Black Mask, “the good old 
gentleman would not allow me to leave the palace ere I 
had—of course, under the seal of the greatest secrecy— 
told him all your story. Father Anselmo, as you had your¬ 
self commissioned me.” 

“And you have come to hear the continuation, all that 
relates to my daughter. Rabbi Benrimo? Well, so be it.” 

Father Anselmo drew from his habit a book bound in 
Morocco leather, and said: 

“This book contains notes by Count Weiden's own 
hand, and was, together with her baptismal certificate, 
found in a casket by the countess, after her husband's 
death. She marked those places which had reference to 
her, and thus I was enabled to read all connectedly in a 
few minutes. 

“ The count during his sojourn in Rome, while walk¬ 
ing one day past the palace of the Inquisition, remarked 
a number of people assembled before the chapel close by. 
On asking what was going on within, he received the 
answer that a Jewish child was just being baptized. 

“Rendered inquisitive by this, he entered and pressed 
forward to the front, where he caught sight of a beautiful 
little girl. Although it could walk and speak, it seemed 
to have no comprehension of the solemn ceremony in 
process. The count, though a bachelor and no longer 
young, took such a fancy to the child that he resolved to 
adopt it and take it to Germany with him. He had no 
great difficulty in procuring the child, for the Inquisition 
was anxious to force people to baptism, but did not much 
care what became of them afterward. 

“ When the count had convinced the holy fathers that 
he was a good Catholic, and presented a letter of recom¬ 
mendation from his country's embassador, the child was 
delivered to him, together with its baptismal certificate, 
which stated that Ella, the daughter of the Jew Isaac 
Mundolfo, had received the name of Matilda in holy bap¬ 
tism. 


m 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


“He traveled about with the child, had her most 
splendidly educated, and everywhere presented her as the 
daughter of a deceased noble friend. When Ella attained 
to years of womanhood, she was of startling beauty, and 
as the count feared that some young man might deprive 
him of her, he married her himself, and after having 
very easily gained her consent, her loving heart asking no 
more than always to stay with the man who had been 
so kind to her. Although their married life was un¬ 
usually happy, the count, after the mysterious disappear¬ 
ance of his son, began to reproach himself in secret for 
having married a Jewess, even a baptized one, and looked 
upon the loss of his heir as a punishment for his sin. 

“ However, he never let the countess suspect anything 
of this; he loved her far too much for that, and it can be 
ascribed only to the pangs of his conscience and to ease his 
heart that he disclosed to her with his dying breath the 
secret of her birth. That is all I have to read in the 
count's diary," concluded Father Anselmo. 

“But, father, you once told me that when you inquired 
for your child you received the answer that the name of 
the gentleman or family who adopted it was not known," 
said the Black Mask. 

“ And that with truth, my son," returned Anselmo; 
“the priests had no intention of putting me on the 
track of the count, and exposing themselves to the dan¬ 
ger of being deprived of a convert. But now, my son, 
lend me your carriage, for I want to visit my daughter ” 
Father Anselmo uttered the last two words with such 
loving pride, that both his auditors were overcome with 
emotion. 


CHAPTER XL. 

THE COURT-PHYSICIAN" TO_HIS HIGHNESS. 

The apartments which the young prince and his men¬ 
tor inhabited were situated, as already told, in a side wing 
of the ducal palace, and had been newly furnished iu 
honor of the prince. 





THE WIDOW'S SON. m 

It was dusk, and the prince, who suffered no attendants 
near him, had just with his royal hands lit the wax-lights 
on the silver chandelier. 

He threw himself peevishly into an arm-chair and im¬ 
patiently turned the leaves of a hook. His meeting with 
the Black Mask had left a very unpleasant impression, 
which he could not efface, upon his mind. He was await¬ 
ing his mentor. 

The prince never felt easy or safe when the latter 
was not near, and only reluctantly allowed him to 
leave his side; but the Indian was obliged to go out now 
and then in order to procure the funds requisite for their 
style of living. It is true that the duke had put his 
treasury at the prince's disposal, but the Indian would 
not permit him to accept anything, as this might easily 
bring the duke’s enthusiasm down to zero, as poor rela¬ 
tions are never agreeable to their wealthy kin. 

“ So soon, my prince, as you are publicly acknowledged 
and proclaimed successor to the throne," said the mentor, 
“you may, for all I shall say to the contrary, dip as 
deeply as you will into your uncle's purse, but not before. 
Leave all to me; I have good friends who advance me all 
I need without charging any interest." 

So now the Indian was absent on one of his expedi¬ 
tions, which he had said would take him longer than 
usual, for he had to journey to a remote convent near the 
boundary to procure money. 

It was yesterday that the prince had met the Black 
Mask in the duke's apartment, and since then he had 
kept in his room, giving out that he felt ill, but wished 
for no visitors, least of all for a doctor. 

The prince was desirous of conferring with his mentor 
before he again ventured into the presence of the duke. 
For this reason he was so vexed at the Indian's absence. 

At last the evening was far advanced, and the prince had 
given up all hope for the night, when he thought he heard 
a peculiar knocking at the door which led to his apart- 


294 THE WIDOW’S SON. 

merits. The room in which he sat was the last of the 
suite, and all the doors were locked from within. 

The young man sprang with alacrity from his arm¬ 
chair, and unlocking all the doors, at last beheld the 
humpbacked Indian whom he had anxiously expected. 
The latter silently followed him liack through all the 
rooms, carefully locking each, and having reached the 
last, he locked this also, and with a sigh of relief 
stretched himself, suddenly appearing of more than 
medium stature. 

“ God be thanked that you have come. Red Arrow,” 
said the prince, not at all astonished by this transforma¬ 
tion; “ never, never have I so longed for your return.” 

“For Heaven's sake, what has happened?” asked the 
Indian, in very plain words, not at all the figurative 
speech he displayed at court; “ nothing disagreeable, I 
hope? Or has the prince committed some piece of folly,, 
and jeopardized his faithful Indian’s head as well as his 
own?” 

“ Nothing of the kind. Red Arrow—Red Devil I should 
prefer to say; I was surprised vesterday bv the Black 
Mask.” 

“Well?” asked Red Arrow, anxiously; and his eyes: 
almost started from their sockets with dread. 

“ Well, apparently he did not recognize me.” 

“What do you frighten a body so for, my prince?”’ 
very angrily said the mentor. 

“ I did not know you could get frightened so easily,” 
mockingly said the prince; “ I am sure he does not know 
you, and your fear of him is truly childish. I have 
every cause to avoid him, for he not only saw me once, 
but hit me.” And the prince gnashed his teeth. 

“That has nothing to do with it!” cried the Indian,, 
angrily; “the man intimidates me; and the first time I 
ever saw him I was overcome by a presentiment that he 
would conduce to my misfortune—a presentiment which 
has become partly true, as he is the cause of my having 
had to relinquish the money from the Jews.” 




THE WIDOW'S SON. 295 

“ Yes, so yon said once before; but you did not tell me 
in what way he prevented you." 

“ I will tell you that at some more opportune time. 
I do not feel in the mood for it to-day." 

“Why? Did you not get any money in the convent 
you spoke of?" 

“ Oh, yes; but I did not bring it with me. A confed¬ 
erate is going to fetch it to a certain tavern you know of, 
to-morrow. The prior did not have as much as I needed 
on hand." 

“In your place I would have chosen another spot, my 
faithful mentor," said the prince, thoughtfully; “ the 
prince's attendant is known all over the city, and ought 
not to be seen in a thieves' tavern." 

“ 0 most worshipful prince," returned the mentor, 
mockingly, “ do not think I am so foolish as to go there 
in my character as an Indian. I did not go to the con¬ 
vent as such. I have a very pretty disguise, in which no 
one suspects the prince's faithful redskin. To what end 
have we the house in Duke street?" 

“ That is what I wish to say. But we have strayed 
from our subject, the Black Mask. What shall we do in 
regard to him?" asked the prince. 

“Yes, yes," returned the Indian, in a low tone; “a 
few inches of cold steel between his ribs would put him 
nicely out of the way; but you cannot summon resolution 
enough for a steady thrust!" 

“ I have sworn to kill him," said the prince, gloomily; 
“ I perceive very well that there is not room for both of 
us in the world." 

“Well," said the Indian, artfully, “do you want to 
wait until he makes the same discovery, and puts you out 
of the way?" 

“No, by heavens!" cried the prince, threateningly; “I 
shall watch all his going in and his coming out, and stab 
him as I would a dog, and were it only for the evil he did 
me by restoring the old duke to health and delaying my 
§uccession to the throne." 


296 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 


“So be it,” cried the Indian, stretching out his hand; 
“ your hand on it.” 

The prince gave his hand, and excusing himself on a 
plea of fatigue, retired, not to bed, but to form a plan of 
attack on the Black Mask. 

The Indian threw a contemptuous glance after him, 
and muttered: 

“ Coward, you have not even the courage to stab a man 
in the bade.” 

Then the red man drew a pistol from his embroidered 
belt, took a tomahawk from a drawer, and lying down 
before nis prince's door, placed both weapons within 
reach. 

The next day passed like all others; the prince had 
summoned up all his courage and remained with the 
duke even after the physician was announced. It would 
have been better for his peace as well as his temper had 
he retired as usual. On the preceding day, the doctor 
had told the duke that he would take his leave of him on 
the morrow, as he now considered his highness fully re¬ 
stored to health. 

When the Black Mask entered the duke’s apartment, 
he found Benrimo there as usual, and to his intense as¬ 
tonishment, the young prince. 

The duke advanced to meet the physician—a proceed¬ 
ing contrary to all court etiquette—and in an exceedingly 
gracious manner held out his hand. 

“I bid you welcome, my dear sir,” said his highness, 
“ and herewith hand you your patent of office as court- 
physician to the duke of Wimmerstein.” 

The duke took a roll of parchment which Benrimo, 
who had likewise arisen, held in his hands, and presented 
it to the Black Mask. 

“ This office which I have now conferred on you, en¬ 
titles yon to come to court at all times, and to attend all 
public banquets; of course you will ever be a most wel¬ 
come guest at the private table of your sovereign. The 





THE WIDOW'S SON. 


297 


name in this patent has been left for you to fill in, as 
Benrimo tells me that you do not wish it to be known.” 

The Black Mask—also quite in opposition to court 
etiquette—kissed the duke’s hand and stammered his 
thanks; hut his highness said: 

“Do not thank me, my dear sir, thank old Benrimo, 
for he is the manager and contriver of it all. I did not 
know of any way in which I could express my gratitude 
for the restoration of my health; he it was who advised 
me to surprise you in this manner.” 

The Black Mask hastened to Benrimo, and was about to 
kiss his hand, but the old soldier warmly embraced him 
and whispered in his ear: 

“ I betrayed your name to the duke. I spoke to him 
of you years ago. Although he said to fill it in, it is 
written there by his own hand.” 

The new court-physician took leave of his highness, 
and departed to visit his other patients. 

That afternoon several criers, each provided with a 
large bell, walked through the streets of the city and pro¬ 
claimed to the people that his Highness Duke Francis 
XII. had pleased to allow his old court physician to re¬ 
tire on a pension, and conferred this position on him so 
well known in the city as the “ Black Mask.” 

This news likewise soon spread to the Ghetto. A 
proclamation had been sent to the president of the con¬ 
gregation, who could read it very well, and transcribed it 
into Hebrew characters for the sexton. Wolf. The latter 
passed through all the streets crying it aloud, his lips 
quivering and growing quite pale every time he came to 
the words “ Black Mask.” 

It cannot be said that the inhabitants of the Ghetto 
were particularly pleased to hear what honor was done to 
this ominous and mysterious personage; they therefore 
received the tidings with great indifference and callous¬ 
ness, conceiving that, if it foreboded no harm for them, 
it certainly promised no good. 

The news of this distinction burst upon the young 


SOS THE WIDOW'S SON. 

prince like a bombshell. The days on which it had been 
schemed were those the prince had passed in his apart¬ 
ments, so it came upon him quite unprepared, and put 
him into an ungovernable rage. Shortly taking leave of 
his uncle, he hastened to his room, where he found the 
Indian comfortably smoking his pipe. Breathlessly lie 
related all to his uncle, and swore in a most unprincely 
manner. But the hunchback only shrugged his high 
shoulders and said, mockingly: 

“And will my white Young Eagle never show his claws 
to the creeping Black Snake ?” 

“ By Heaven!” cried the prince, clinching his fists, 
“this black bat shall never eat at the duke’s table; I will 
take his desire for it away. And that old accursed Jew, 
that one-legged toad; I shall wait with him until my 
idiotic uncle is dead and buried; then I’ll accuse him of 
high treason and have him cut and quartered!” 

“ Trisected, my son, you mean to say,” mocked the In¬ 
dian; “you can only have him cut into three pieces, as 
he is short of a fourth.” 

“ And you can make bad jests at such a time?” yelled 
the prince, his face quite distorted with rage.” 

“Why not?” returned the Indian, very coolly; “I re¬ 
joice to see how excellently you can play the part of a 
sovereign, at least in so far as it concerns the quartering 
of obnoxious courtiers. However,” continued he, “I have 
no more time for you now; I must go to the rendezvous 
you know of to get my money.” 

The hunchback put on his cloak and departed. Even¬ 
ing was fast coming on when the left the palace. 

The prince enveloped himself in a large cloak, con¬ 
cealed a glittering two-edged dagger in his bosom, and 
went out directly after his faithful Indian. He had sum¬ 
moned up all his courage, and sworn death to the Black 
Mask. The prince had purposely assumed no disguise, 
for lie knew that, were he not caught in the very act of 
committing the deed, no one would think of accusing him 




THE WIDOW'S SON. 


203 


of murder, nor even lay hands on him, however near to the 
scene of it he might be found. 

Of course he directed his steps to the street where the 
Black Mask resided. At this time of day, the physician 
was usually at home. The prince knew the house, and 
his design was to ask for the Black Mask and announce 
his rank. The former would then, as etiquette demanded, 
come to receive his distinguished visitor in person, upon 
which the prince would stab him, and then cry for help, 
as if some one had attempted to murder him, and by mis¬ 
take hit the doctor. 

But at the door the would-be murderer was told that 
the doctor was not at home, and would not return before 
midnight, as he had gone to the country. The prince 
was exceedingly disappointed. All the courage he had 
summoned up, and the cunning plan he had contrived, 
were rendered useless, at least for this evening. 

He strolled down the street and turned into Duke 
street, the only one in the city that was illuminated. This 
was done by means of lamps hanging from chains stretched 
obliquely across the street. At that time people did not 
know such a luxury as our illuminated streets. Whoever 
had occasion to go out at night carried a lantern, or, 
were he rich enough, had one carried before him. Only 
the main streets were scantily lighted in the manner we 
have above described. 

The prince halted before the house he had inhabited 
on his arrival in the city, and deliberated whether he 
should go in and wait for the Indian's return with the 
money. 

At this moment, a person carrying a lantern came 
slowly up the street. The blood stagnated in the prince's 
veins. He took up his position in the shadow of the 
stairs. The person coming up the street had a mask on 
his face, and was of slender figure. All this the lantern 
plainly showed. Now he was but two paces distant from 
the house where the prince stood—he advanced a step — 
yes, it was the Black Mask, Now—heayens and earth!— 


300 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


lie placed his foot on the stairs of the house in which the 
prince once lived, and—a daggerglistens in the uncertain 
glow of the lantern, and the next moment is plunged deep 
into the back of the Black Mask. 

A thrilling cry broke the silence of the night; the lan¬ 
tern fell to the stone pavement, shivering into a thousand 
pieces; the tall, slender figure swayed back and forth and 
fell, face upward, close to the lantern light that still flick¬ 
ered feebly on the ground. 

te Wretch!” muttered the trembling murderer, “ I must 
know your face!” and, bending down, he tore off the black 
mask. 

As if himself pierced by a hundred daggers, the mur¬ 
derer recoiled, and howling pitifully, fled away into the 
night. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

THE HAND OF GOD. 

Oh the afternoon preceding the evening on which the 
events related in the last chapter occurred. Father Ansel- 
mo thought the time had arrived for presenting her long- 
lost child to his daughter. She had by this time fully re¬ 
covered from the attack on her life, only a lingering 
weakness remaining, and this Father Anselmo had not 
considered a sufficient obstacle to prevent his informing 
her of her prospective happiness. The countess most 
willingly and gladly believed her father, and with glow¬ 
ing cheeks and beating heart was awaiting her boy’s arri¬ 
val. Every time she heard the rolling of carriage-wheels 
she rushed to the window, every unusual noise made her 
tremble. But Anselmo and the Black Mask had pre¬ 
pared a surprise for her. 

The countess was again at the window, intently and 
longingly looking down the road which the Black Mask’s 
carriage must pass, when she felt a light touch on her 
shoulder. She turned quickly. Before her stood An¬ 
selmo and the Black Mask, holding between them a beau¬ 
tiful, golden-haired boy, who was looking up with an em- 





THE WIDOW’S SON. 301 

barrassed and even frightened mien at the tall, handsome 
lady. 

For a moment the countess remained motionless; then, 
uttering a joyful cry, she sank on her knees, and drawing 
the child to her heart, stammered, amidst convulsive 
weeping: 

“Yes, yes; you are my only one, my darling, my 
Hugo!” 

The boy, who had never been even looked at, much 
less embraced, by so elegant a lady, was quite at a loss 
how to act; but finally, having nothing else to do with 
his arms, he twined them around the lady’s neck, who 
almost smothered him with her caresses. At last the lady 
arose, and sitting down on a sofa, drew the child to her 
side. 

“ You are lovely, my Hugo,” said the lady, smiling 
through her tears, and attempting to draw him on her 
lap, against which the child struggled violently, deeming 
it a shame for such a big boy to sit on any one’s lap. The 
countess repeatedly kissed the boy, who did not dare to 
utter a remonstrance. She quite forgot that he must be 
intimidated by her imposing appearance and the splendor 
of all her surroundings, though he had seen pretty rooms 
in the doctor’s house. 

“Why do you not speak to me, my Hugo?” asked the 
countess, with a tender accent. 

The Black Mask and Father Anselmo both trembled as 
the boy began: 

“ My name is not Hugo; my name is Benoni, which 
means child of pain, because it was bad for Pinkus when 
I came to the Ghetto, and bad for all the Hebrews.” 

The blood retreated from the face of the countess as 
she heard this dreadful jargon proceed from the coral 
lips of the boy. She could hardly believe he had spoken. 

But soon her motherly love gained the victory over her 
pride,, and closely embracing the boy, she said: 

“ Then you shall be called Benoni by me, my darling 


302 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


child; for you are my child of pain also. Will you not 
acknowledge your mother, my son?” 

“I should have liked to have had a mother long ago; 
in the Ghetto they said I was a Christian, and that Pin- 
kus was my mother and my father too.” 

Although, the lady still made a wry face when the boy 
spoke, the first stroke had been the worst. 

“Do not he uneasy, my Ella,” said Father Anselino; 
“this gentleman,” continued he, pointing to the Black 
Mask, “spoke even worse than our little Benoni; half a 
year cured his fault, and the tender care of a mother will 
correct it still sooner.” 

“ I must confess that it surprised me,” said the count¬ 
ess, smilingly; “but I ought to have been prepared for 
it, as you, my father, told me where my hoy had been 
reared.” 

“ And this discovery frightened you, my Ella,” said 
Father Anselmo, tenderly. 

“ If you want to he my mother, you must ‘ bensch 9 me 
every Sabbath and every f Jomtob,' as the boys are 
* bensched ' in the Ghetto; no one would ever bensch * 
me.” 

The countess looked inquiringly at the two gentlemen. 
She had not understood a single word. 

“ Benoni asks you if you will bless him as the Jewish 
mothers bless their sons—a religious act which is of more 
importance to them than any other.” 

“ Yes, yes, my son,” said the countess, the tears rising 
to her eyes; “ yes, yes; may God in his mercy bless you 
for ever and ever!” 

“ That's not ‘ bensching ; 9 that's what the Galahs say,” 
cried Benoni, disappointed; “you can't ‘bensch' aright, 
because you're not a Hebrew mother.” 

The countess grew pale and pressed her hands on her 
heart. The boy had hurt her by the reproach which he 
had in all innocence uttered. 

“ 0, my father,” cried the countess, painfully agitated, 

teach me to pronounce the blessing this child asks for.” 




THE WIDOW’S SON. 


308 

“Lay your hands on yonr boy’s head/’ said Father 
Anselmo, in a low, moved voice, “ and try to say after 
me: ‘Y’simcha Eloliim K 9 Ephraim v’chi M'nasseh! ’” 
(God make yon great, like Ephraim and Manasseh!) 

Repeating word for word, the countess blessed her 
child, and never did Jewish lips pronounce a blessing with 
more fervor. The boy looked wonderingly from his 
mother to Father Ansel mo and back again; then breaking 
forth into a loud, merry laugh, he exclaimed: 

“God’s wonder! since when can a Galah bensch, and 
a mother, that wants to, not be a real mother?” 

“ Be comforted, my son; your mother will exert her¬ 
self to become a good Jewish mother, and you will never 
again have cause to complain of her ignorance in the old 
faith.” 

Anselmo and the Black Mask exchanged a look of sur¬ 
prise; the countess intercepted it, and said quickly: 

“Yes, my father, and you, sir, to whom I owe this 
happy hour, listen to my vow. If God grants me life I 
shall return to the religion of my fathers, from which I 
was torn by violence. May God, the Lord, strengthen 
me in my resolve, and my husband forgive me for not 
wishing, when my time comes, to rest by his side in the 
family vault, but to be buried on the mounds where my 
ancestors found peace after a tortured life.” 

* * * * * * 

It was late in the evening when the doctor’s carriage 
turned into the city. He had deposited Anselmo at the 
station, for the latter’s furlough had expired, and besides 
he did not wish to remain away any longef from his 
patients who were in great need of his care. 

The coachman drove through Duke street, for this, as 
we have already mentioned, was pretty fairly illuminated. 
■Suddenly he stopped the horses. At first the Black Mask 
took no notice of this, but when the stoppage lasted too 
long, he put his head out of the carriage window and per¬ 
ceived that a great concourse of people in the street was 
the cause of the delay. 


304 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


At the same moment a policeman in uniform stepped 
up to the carriage, and saluting its occupant, said: 

“Will you please alight for a moment? A heavily 
wounded man lies in yonder house, and the police surgeon 
is nowhere to be found.” 

The Black Mask immediately left the carriage and fol¬ 
lowed the policeman into the designated house. 

On the sofa in a room on the first floor lay the figure of 
a man with pale face and closed eyes. All the lights of 
the chandelier were lit and the room was so bright that 
the doctor, coming from the darkness of the street, was at 
first dazzled. 

Approaching the sofa he cast a look at the wounded 
man, then recoiled in amazement, and was obliged to lean 
against the wall for support. 

“ The ways of God are marvelous!” muttered he, when 
he had somewhat recovered. 

He sent a policeman to the carriage for his case of in¬ 
struments, and when it was brought, proceeded to ex¬ 
amine the wounded man and probe the wound. This did 
not take long. 

The doctor answered the questioning looks of the by¬ 
standers by a sorrowful shake of the head. He then 
bound up the wound, and put his patient in an easier posi¬ 
tion. When this had been done the policeman bade all 
the bystanders to leave the room, and remained alone with 
the Black Mask. 

“How long has the wounded man still to live?” he 
asked in a whisper. 

“A half an hour, perhaps.” 

“That is not long,” returned the policeman; “I am 
afraid we will not even find out his name.” 

“Do you not know him?” asked the Black Mask, in 
surprise. 

“ No; nor have any of the many persons without recog¬ 
nized him.” 

“ Well, I know him,” returned the physician in a whis¬ 
per; “ it is Baron Kuno of Witzleb.” 




305 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 

The policeman stared at the Black Mask, then said: 

“Excuse me, hut the man you say has been lost track 
of for years. We were once in search of him as the mur¬ 
derer of a monk." 

“Nevertheless it is he," said the physician, almost 
aloud. 

Their attention was now drawn to the sofa whence 
deep moans proceeded. The wounded man had regained 
consciousness, and when he caught sight of the Black 
Mask his face, which was already the hue of death, as¬ 
sumed a pitiably terrified expression. 

“Be easy, baron," said the Black Mask, soothingly, 
“ I am not here as your enemy, but in the character of a 
doctor. I am not more to be feared than any other man; 
my mask was never the shield of evil deeds." 

“ But mine was. Oh, sir; your mask is the cause of 
my death; for I feel I must die," said the baron, feebly. 

“ But how can the mask of this gentleman, our most 
honored court-physician, be the cause of your death?" 
asked the policeman. 

The wounded man turned his eyes on the policeman, 
who stood at the head of the sofa, and a mocking ex¬ 
pression glided over his features. 

“Ah!" said he, “police!" But you come too late. 
Baron Kuno of Witzleb will never follow you into a 
prison; he has always outwitted you, and does so still!" 

“It is not proper for you, in your critical state, to 
speak in such a strain," said the, policeman, gravely. 

“Just this may prove to you that I am no common 
man," said the baron, groaning; “in one respect I have 
remained true to my ancestors—I have always been 
courageous—not like that coward-" 

Here the baron's thoughts suddenly reverted to the 
cause of his sad plight, and fixing his eyes on the Black 
Mask, he said: 

“Eor the reason that your mask is so convenient, and 
you are permitted to wear it in the city, I often made use 
of it, not only to evade the police who are still searching 


306 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


for the murderer of Christian, but to conduct some little 
affairs of my own. The wound I received was intended 
for you; a friendly mistake inflicted it on me. - ” 

“Do you know your murderer, baron?” asked the 
policeman. 

Again a mocking expression rested on the baron’s face, 
and, without turning to the policeman, he said: 

“ Of course I do.” 

“ Will you name him, that he may receive the punish¬ 
ment of the law?” 

Again the baron glanced at the Black Mask, then said 
in long-drawn tones, partly because his wound pained 
him, and partly to make a proper impression on his 
hearers: 

“Yes, gentleman—I know him—it is Egmont of Wei- 
den—the Trumpcard—the captain—of the band-” 

At this point the physician raised his mask, and the 
baron’s face assumed a ghastly look; then raising himself 
on his couch, he stretched out both his hands; and with 
all the strength still remaining in his lungs, cried out: 

‘God be merciful to my poor soul! The dead forsake 
their graves—help!—he—lp-!” 

A stream of blood gushed from his mouth, and he fell 
back on his pillows. The policeman had followed the 
baron’s frightened glance, but saw nothing but the figure 
of the Black Mask standing quietly at the foot of the 
sofa. 

Two minutes later, Baron Kuno of Witzleb was dead, 
and the murder of Christian revenged. 

The Black Mask, to all appearances quite composed,, 
entered his carriage, and gave the order: “Home.” 

The next morning the city was full of the news that 
Baron Kuno of Witzleb had been foully murdered by his. 
wicked nephew, the former captain of the band whose 
members had all been executed. 

At the same time the police were busy looking for the 
Indian, the hunchbacked mentor of the young prince, 
who had mysteriously disappeared the day before, and 






THE WIDOW'S S0,\. 


807 


who, in the city so strange to him, might have met with 
some fatal accident. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

EMPEROR AND PHYSICIAN. 

Duke Francis was speaking eagerly to his favorite, 
Moses Benrimo. His subject was the mysterious disap¬ 
pearance of the hunchbacked indian, who, despite all the 
exertions of the police, could not be found. Benrimo 
could have told his royal master what had become of the 
prince’s mentor, but he had promised the Black Mask 
perfect secrecy, and intended to keep his word. 

“ The loss of his faithful companion has affected my 
dear nephew, the prince, very much,” said the duke. 

. “ He seems quite unsettled, totters about like a drunken 
man, and hardly dares come near me. Then what must 
he think of my government and my courts, when on the 
same night one man is murdered and another disappears? 
Do you know, Moses, I believe I have grown too old to 
govern—the sooner I retire and abdicate in favor of my 
nephew, the better it will be for all parties.” 

Benrimo was about to answer, when the servant an¬ 
nounced the duke’s nephew. The latter entered, hastened 
up to his uncle, kissed his hand, and inquired about his 
health. 

“ You come at the right moment, my Alfred,” said the 
duke, much pleased; “ I was just speaking of you.” 

“ It gratifies me to hear that your highness holds me 
worthy of a thought.” 

“ Why should I not? You are the only remaining 
branch of our family, and I thank God daily that he has 
let me live to do you justice. But you must promise to 
grant me the favor I shall now ask of you.” 

“ Speak, your highness, I promise to grant anything in 
my power.” 

“Collect your faculties, my Alfred: do not be so lost 
in grief at the disappearance of this half-savage. It does 
not become a man who is destined to govern a people to 



808 THE WIDOW'S SON. 

mourn like a woman at a loss which cannot even with 
justice be termed a loss, for your mentor may return at 
any moment.” 

“No, your highness, he will never return,” the prince 
quietly answered; then sorrowfully continued: “You can¬ 
not comprehend what this man, whom you, my uncle, 
call a half-savage, was to me. He replaced father and 
mother in a manner which never caused me to feel their 
loss, and I never can cease to grieve for him.” 

“ God forbid that I ever should require this of you,” 
returned the duke. “ I honor gratitude in any shape, and 
you would show a bad heart indeed did you desire to for¬ 
get this man. But I wish you to arouse yourself from this 
inaction, for I am about to roll a heavy load on your 
shoulders. My special messenger to the emperor may re¬ 
turn soon—nay, this very day—and then, my Alfred, I 
will invest you with the rights of reigning duke, and 
retire for the rest of my days to private life/’ 

Benrimo observed a sudden flash of triumph gleam 
across the prince’s face. It quickly vanished, however, 
and the young man, assuming a grieved expression, said: 

“ Why do you wish to resign the crown, my uncle, and 
burden me, who am still so young, so inexperienced, with 
a load that may easily become too heavy for me? I would 
rather see your highness hold the reigns of government 
for another quarter of a century, for no one else can so 
well govern this beautiful little country.” 

The duke smiled in a superior manner—he evidently 
felt much flattered. 

“ My dear nephew,” said he, “ you must not think that 
I will leave you to wander alone through the mazes and 
labyrinths of difficulties which attend so arduous a posi¬ 
tion; I will ever be at your side and advise you, as long as 
God grants me life.” 

“ May this be still many, many years, is my heartfelt 
wish,” cried the prince warmly. 

“ I believe you, my Alfred, I believe you.” 





THE WIDOW'S SON. 809 

At this moment the door was thrown open, and a serv¬ 
ant announced: 

“ Count Albinger, special messenger to his highness.” 

“ You are welcome, count,” joyously cried the duke, 
rising in great excitement from his chair, and walking 
forward to greet the nobleman, who was still dusty from 
his long ride. 

“ What news from the capital?” continued the duke; 
“ is his majesty well and still favorably inclined toward 
me ?” 

“Yes, your highness,” returned the count, “his maj¬ 
esty sends you gracious greetings by word of mouth. 
Other particulars are communicated in this document.” 

With a low bow the messenger handed the duke a 
letter, sealed with the imperial seal, and then, bowing 
again, took his departure, walking backward to the door. 

“Will your highness permit me to retire?” asked 
Prince Alfred, as the duke was about to open the letter. 

“Remain here, and you also, Moses.” 

The duke’s eyes flew over the document; but the joyous 
haste with which he had begun to read, gradually turned 
into a displeasure bordering on rage. 

“Bad news?” asked the prince, watchfully, and 
he moved uneasily on his chair. 

“ It cannot exactly be called bad news,” said the duke, 
peevishly; “on the contrary, at any other time the an¬ 
nouncement which this letter contains would have made 
me happy. Just think, the emperor is coming here. 
Ilis majesty is about to travel through his domains, and 
so will take occasion to visit me, and learn to know my 
heir personally.” 

The prince again begged for permission to retire, and 
this time it was granted. 

When he had left the apartment the duke said: 

“Moses, I am excessively vexed; can you imagine 
why?” 

“Clearly, your highness, most clearly; the emperor 
Rates the ide^. of losing so glorious an inheritance, one of 


310 THE WIDOW'S SON. 

the prettiest provinces in the German realm, and on which 
he had surely counted, so he makes some excuse and 
comes in person to see if he cannot discover a flaw 
anywhere.” 

“My old Moses, I see that we still understand one an¬ 
other,” returned the duke, smiling lightly. “ Yes, it is 
so, and wfiat do you think is best for me to do?” 

“ The best policy, your highness, would be to put a 
good face on the matter, receive his majesty very cor¬ 
dially, and persuade him to acknowledge your heir.” 

“He can’t avoid doing this last, Moses, but he may 
previously put many difficulties in the way.” 

“For this reason your highness ought to receive his 
majesty with the utmost cordiality.” 

“Yes, we will do so, old Moses,” said the duke, and 
arose from his chair, thus signifying his wish to be left 
alone. 

****** 

All the city was in a state of great excitement. The 
emperor was to come, an event which had not happened 
within the memory of the oldest inhabitant. And par¬ 
ticularly this emperor, of whom all the world spoke and 
wrote, the most condescending and affable man that 
ever graced a throne, was an object of curiosity to every 
one. Even in the Ghetto the emperor was anxiously ex¬ 
pected, for his majesty had done much to improve the 
social condition of the Jews in his own realm. Thus 
here the streets and houses were decorated with flags and 
garlands, and even triumphal arches were erected, 
although the Jews were pretty well convinced that the 
emperor would not set foot in their quarter. 

The morning of the day on which his majesty was ex¬ 
pected dawned most promisingly. The troops at the duke’s 
command were drawn up in long columns, awaiting the 
arrival of the distinguished visitor. The duke, with his 
nephew, and most of the court, had driven to meet the 
emperor without the city. The officers of the duke’s 
housediold, to which, of course, Benrimo and the courts 





THE WIDOW'S SON. 811 

physician beloged, were assembled in the ducal pal¬ 
ace. The duke would have liked to take his physi¬ 
cian with him; but firstly, the latter was not of noble ex¬ 
traction, and secondly, no one durst appear before the 
emperor with face covered. It is true, he might have 
commanded the doctor to lay aside his mask, but we 
know that he did not dare to act in direct contradiction 
to what the mysterious epistle of Isaac Mundolfo had re¬ 
quested him. 

Benrimo and the Black Mask sat in the duke's apart¬ 
ment, engaged in conversation. It must have been of a 
very entertaining nature, for Benrimo nodded and smiled 
incessantly, while the court-physician was merry and in 
good mood. 

Suddenly the report of a cannon was heard in the dis¬ 
tance, and another and another followed in rapid succes¬ 
sion; his majesty, the emperor, had arrived. 

Benrimo and the physician took up their position at a 
window, in order to see the emperor, who might now at 
any moment reach the palace. 

Their surprise was no less great than that of the 
crowds who had assembled to see all the splendor the 
emperor would display. 

His majesty sat beside the duke in an open carriage. 
Of the immense retinue that had been expected, nothing 
was to be seen; the emperor must have left it behind him 
somewhere, most probably in the capital. His majesty 
himself was dressed very simply in a plain blue coat, on 
the left side of which a diamond star, the only indication 
of his rank, glittered brightly. His three-cornered hat, 
raised in salutation to the crowds in the streets, was dec¬ 
orated only by a cockade, representing the various colors 
of his provinces. 

The emperor appeared to be not much over thirty, and 
his face expressed great nobleness and kindness of heart. 

When the carriage stopped at the gate of the palace, 
the duke and prince hastened to alight in order to con¬ 
duct his majesty to the apartments prepared for him. 


m 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 

The Black Mask uttered a cry as the emperor’s foot 
touched the ground. Benrimo turned in surprise, and 
asked the reason of it. 

“ My God! Do you not see that his majesty has 
sprained his ankle?” exclaimed the Black Mask. 

This must have been the case, for the emperor limped 
very noticeably. The cheering crowds remarked it also, 
but imagined this was his majesty’s usual gait. 

Before long hasty steps became audible in the corridor 
leading to the duke’s apartment, and anxious voices 
cried: 

“The court-physician, the court-physician!” 

“ I knew it,” said the Black Mask, hurriedly buckling 
on the sword which had come to him with his new dig¬ 
nity, and with which the duke himself had invested him, 

I knew it;” and snatching up his hat, he hastened into 
the corridor. Arrived at the door leading to his maj¬ 
esty’s apartments, he paused, took off his mask, then en¬ 
tered. 

The emperor sat on one chair, and had his foot elevated 
on another. An expression of pain rested on his line 
features as the physician entered. The emperor made a 
sign, and all present excepting the duke left the apart¬ 
ment. In the confusion attending to this, no one, not 
even the duke, had noticed that the physician was with¬ 
out his mask, and the latter, hurriedly approaching the 
emperor, bent so low over the injured foot that his face 
was quite hidden from view. 

The emperor, however, threw a sharp, searching 
glance on the physician’s countenance, and was not only 
agreeably surprised by its expression, but so pleased with 
the sculptured beauty of his features, the large, shining 
black eyes, and high, intellectual brow, that he uttered 
a gratified: 

“ Ah!” 

“Do you require assistance, doctor?” anxiously asked 
the duke. 



313 


THE WIDQW'S SON. 

“No, your highness, thanks,” returned the physician, 
as he skillfully examined the emperor’s foot. 

W hile uttering these words, he had glanced up a mo¬ 
ment, thus turning his full face to the duke, who, now 
also beholding it for the first time, could not repress a 
cry of pleased surprise. The emperor, however, took it 
to be a cry of sympathy, and not wishful of causing the 
the old gentleman any needless pain, he said in a kind 
voice: 

“ My dear duke, I by no means desire you to remain a 
witness of this somewhat painful proceeding, and grant 
you permission to leave me.” 

The emperor’s slightest wish sufficed for a command, 
according to the etiquette of that time, and the duke, 
sighing heavily, retired without uttering a contradictory 
word; a thing which was also held in bad repute. 

Hardly had the door closed behind the duke, when the 
physician, raising his fine eyes to the emperor’s face, said: 

“ Will your majesty permit your most submissive serv¬ 
ant to wear this mask in your majesty’s presence?” 

“ Is it some vow you have made?” asked the emperor, 
graciously. 

“ But for a few days more, your majesty, then I will 
show my face to the whole world,” returned the doctor, in 
an apologizing tone of voice; “l do not wear it because I 
have anything to be ashamed of, but only because, with¬ 
out this disguise, I cannot unmask certain criminals who 
have found access to the duke’s court, and infested it.” 

“I believe you, my friend,” kindly said his majesty, 
“your face speaks for the truth of your assertion, and I 
hope that you will tell me the whole story when you have 
succeeded in your exertions, for I love court intrigues, as 
long as they are not played in my court. Resume your 
mask. I permit it.” 

The physician thanked the emperor, who again ad¬ 
monished him not to forget to tell him the story of the 
intrigue, resumed his mask, and admitted the noblemen 
who had been appointed for the emperor's service during 


314 


THE WIDOW’S SON. 


liis sojourn at the palace, and who had till now been wait¬ 
ing in the antechamber. 

When the emperor had been carefully helped to bed, 
the physician assured him that his foot would be quite 
healed in, at the most, three days, and prepared to depart, 
but the emperor, heedless of all etiquette, called him to 
the bed and bade him lower his head. 

“Keep the prince from my bedside, my dear doctor,” 
whispered his majesty, “ else my foot will heal but slowly; 
the fellow has a perfect rogue’s face.” 

“ At your majesty’s service,” answered the doctor, and 
his mask moved as if he laughed beneath it. 

It was with the greatest envy that the noblemen sur¬ 
rounding the emperor’s bed heard his majesty call after 
the departing physician: 

“Doctor, do not forget to look after me again to-day!” 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

TWO UNMASKED INDIVIDUALS. 

As the physician had predicted, the emperor’s indis¬ 
position lasted but a few days, and during this time he, at 
his majesty’s express desire, visited him several times 
daily. 

The duke also visited the emperor, and had many con¬ 
versations with his majesty about the succession to his 
crown, and when the duke already believed every¬ 
thing to be in the best order, the emperor suddenly 
said: 

“Tell me, my dear duke, would it not perhaps be 
better to wait awhile before acknowledging your nephew, 
and see if he is good for something? You might else 
repent having acted so hastily.” 

The duke was astounded. 

But yesterday the emperor had agreed to everything, 
and the time for acknowledging the heir had been ap¬ 
pointed for the following week, when the emperor would 
be well enough to participate in the festivites which were 
to celebrate the happy event. 






THE WIDOW'S SON. 


Of course the duke did not know that the emperor had 
had a long secret conference with the court-physician, 
and even had he known this he would never have imagined 
that the succession to the throne had been the subject of 
their conversation. 

“ Your majesty,” said the duke, hardly able to conceal 
his vexation, “ I think we had better not speak of this 
any more. You have appointed the day and the matter 
is settled. I have deliberated long and carefully, and 
think it best, of course with all due submission to your 
majesty.” 

“Well, well, my dear duke,” returned the emperor, 
“do not excite yourself; I only wished you to think the 
matter over again. However, if you desire it, all shall 
remain as we settled yesterday.” 

Hardly had the duke retired when the court-physician 
was announced. 

The emperor called out to him: 

“Well, my dear doctor, have you seen to everything?” 

“Yes, your majesty, the superintendent of the police 
will be here immediately, and as your majesty commanded, 
in a suitable disguise.” 

“ Very well, my dear doctor; be sure I will not forget 
that it is by your means that I have not only detected an 
impostor, but regained this flourishing province, this pearl 
in my imperial crown.” 

The Black Mask bowed in silence. 

A gentleman was announced, and on his producing a 
card which he could have obtained only from the emperor, 
was immediately admitted to his majesty. 

The Black Mask respectfully took his departure. 

Some of the noblemen whispered to each other that the 
strange gentleman was no other than the superintendent 
of the police in disguise. 

They puzzled their brains as to the cause of his visit to 
the emperor, but finally, as they were not positive that it 
was really he, concluded to drop the subject. 

It was remarkable that this gentleman came again in 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


316 

the evening, this time accompanied by several others, all 
of whom were immediately admitted to the emperor. 

Then a messenger was sent to the duke, and soon the 
latter also repaired to the emperor's apartment. Finally, 
the Black Mask arrived in his carriage, alighted, and 
entered the emperor's apartment without even being an¬ 
nounced. 

The duke was somewhat surprised to be summoned to 
the emperor's presence at so late an hour, and still more 
surprised to find the superintendent of police and several 
strange gentlemen in his majesty’s company. 

The emperor cordially welcomed the duke, and bade 
him to be seated. The Black Mask's arrival, later on, did 
not strike the duke as being at all out of the way, as he 
had observed with joy that his court-physician had be¬ 
come a great favorite with the emperor. 

“ My dear duke," began the emperor, “ I am sorry to 
say that I have a disagreeable communication to make to 
you, which, however, you must not ascribe to my selfish¬ 
ness or any desire to be your heir. On my word as a no¬ 
bleman, it would have made me happy to grant the wish 
of your heart, but the one whom you deem your nephew 
is an impostor." 

The duke grew pale. He arose hastily and put his hand 
on his sword. His majesty likewise arose, and said: 

“ Duke, if what I have just uttered prove to be untrue, 
I will give you satisfaction in a duel, forget that I am 
emperor of the holy Roman realm, and consider myself 
simply nobleman." 

“But," returned the duke, with quivering lips, “why 
must I, who have seen the most incontrovertible proofs, 
be mistaken, and not your majesty?" 

“ That will quickly become clear to you, my dear duke," 
cried the emperor, greatly moved by the old gentleman’s 
anxiety and embarrassment, and wishful of ending the 
unpleasant scene as soon as possible. “ Please send for 
the prince, and I will then leave it to you, duke, to ac¬ 
cuse me of lying." 




THE WIDOW'S SON. 317 

“ But is all this to proceed in the presence of these 
gentlemen?” asked the duke, peevishly, pointing to the 
strangers, and the superintendent whom he had recog¬ 
nized. 

“This gentleman,” said the emperor, pointing to the 
court-physician, “is not unworthy of your confidence, 
and the others I have summoned for protection of my per¬ 
son. They are acquainted with the whole case.” 

The duke put a silver whistle to his mouth, and its 
shrill call soon brought an officer, who held guard at the 
emperors door, to the room. 

“Will your majesty please to give him your com¬ 
mands?” said the duke, in a vexed tone. 

“My good captain,” said the emperor to the officer, 
“ first of all, see that all the guards, within and without 
the palace, leave their posts. Then issue the order, in my 
name, that for the next two hours no servant or officer, 
whoever he may be, shall pass through or loiter on the 
corridors and stairs of the palace, nor within some dis¬ 
tance of them. When you have seen that these orders 
are rigidly executed, do you yourself retire to the barracks 
and stay there two hours, after which you may resume 
guard at my door. There, now go.” 

“ But, your majesty,” cried the duke, now actually 
frightened, “ what do all these orders portend?” 

“ My dear duke, I wish to spare you, who have a life 
fall of honor and nobleness behind you, the scorn and 
ridicule with which the common masses would overwhelm 
you; hence these preparations.” 

The duke heaved a heavy sigh, a presentiment began 
to dawn on him that perhaps the emperor was right, and 
he had not been sufficiently careful in regard to his 
nephew. 

The emperor turned to one of the strange gentlemen: 

“ Go to the alleged prince’s apartment and bid him to 
come to his highness who is in my company. Be sure 
that he obeys this order.” 

The gentleman bowed, and passed through the now 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


318 

empty corridors of the palace to the prince’s room. The 
officer had strictly obeyed the emperor’s command; the 
sentinels and guards were all relieved of their posts, and 
only here and there a person might be seen hurriedly 
speeding to his apartment. 

The gentleman, on reaching the first floor of the prince’s 
suite, knocked somewhat loudly. The prince immedi¬ 
ately answered, asking what was the matter, and several 
holts were pushed back. Steps approached the door 
from within, and the prince again inquired what was 
wanted at so late an hour. 

“ His highness, the duke, has fallen seriously ill, and 
wishes to see the prince,” was the answer. 

There was a hurried running to and fro, then one more 
bolt was pushed hack in its socket, and the prince appear¬ 
ed, the most lively joy depicted on his countenance, not 
as if he had just been informed of his uncle’s illness, but 
as if some happy news had been imparted to him. 

“ Does the duke’s illness excite any anxiety?” said the 
prince. 

“Yes, considerable,” returned the stranger, “in all 
probability a throne will become vacant this night.” 

“ Then hasten, my dear sir,” cried the prince, acceler¬ 
ating his steps, for of course he had misunderstood the 
stranger’s words, and interpreted them to his own desire. 
Despite his agitation, the prince was struck by the fact 
that all the corridors tvere empty, and not a guard within 
sight. He asked the reason, and the stranger again gave 
a very plausible excuse. 

“ It annoys the sick duke to hear steps in the palace,” 
said he. 

“But whither are you conducting me?” asked the 
prince, as they passed the duke’s apartments. 

“His highness is with the emperor; he was taken sud¬ 
denly ill there.” 

The prince’s steps grew more lagging, he did not like 
the emperor, who had never vouchsafed him a gracious 
word. 




THE WIDOW'S SON. 


319 


At last they reached the emperor’s antechamber, which 
likewise, to the great astonishment of the prince, was 
quite empty and deserted. He stepped back in order to 
let the stranger announce him. 

The latter, however, contrary to all etiquette, pushed 
him into the room. The bells from the tower of the 
palace had just clanged forth the hour of midnight. 

As the prince entered the room, he saw before him the 
emperor, the Black Mask, and several gentlemen who 
were unknown to him. 

“ Where is my uncle?” asked the prince, also very con¬ 
trary to etiquette, for in the presence of the emperor only 
his majesty might ask a question. 

“ Here, my nephew, here,” cried the duke, stepping 
forward. 

“ I thought your highness was ill,” said the prince, 
moving a step backward. 

“ That was only a jest,” answered the duke. “ I wish¬ 
ed to see if you would follow my calL” 

In the meanwhile his majesty whispered to the Black 
Mask: 

5/If you should be mistaken!” 

“ Your majesty, I will answer for it with my head,” 
was the firm answer. 

The prince, who began to grow rather uneasy, now 
said: 

“Then your highness will permit me to retire again?” 

He turned, and to his consternation beheld the stran¬ 
ger who had conducted him thither, and three others 
dressed exactly like him, forming a living wall before the 
door. 

All present could now observe the violent trembling of 
the prince, even the duke, who cast a wondering look at 
the emperor. 

At a sign from his majesty, the Black Mask stepped up 
to the prince and said slowly: 

“ Murderer of Baron Witzleb, I know you!” 

The prince swayed back and forth like a reed in a 


320 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


storm, and cast helpless glances around the circle of by¬ 
standers. A gentleman who had till now stood beside the 
emperor came np to the prince and, unbuttoning his 
coat, displayed the uniform of the superintendent of the 
police. 

“Prince,” said he, “we are looking for Egmont of 
Weiden, alias Trumpcard.” 

“Mercy, gentlemen, mercy,” cried the prince, falling 
on his knees. 

“Why are you so terrified, prince?” said the police 
superintendent* stepping closer to the kneeling prince, 
“your hair is perfectly erect with dread.” 

With a bold, rapid movement he seized the prince's 
hair, and the next moment the curly wig and false mus¬ 
tache lay on the floor, while pale yellowish locks, in 
truth standing on end, came to view. 

The duke uttered a cry and fell on a chair. 

“My God!” stammered he; “ why, this is Egmont of 
Weiden, the expelled cadet!” 

“Yes, your highness,” said the Black Mask, “and the 
Baron Witzleb whom he murdered, was the Indian men¬ 
tor.” 

“ Then the letter from Dr. Isaac Mundolfo really spoke 
the truth, and the Black Mask has averted utter shame 
and disgrace from my head,” moaned the duke. 

Suddenly the unmasked robber and murderer sprang 
from his knees, and raising aloft a dagger, jumped furi¬ 
ously on the Black Mask, who barely avoided a thrust; 
but at the same moment the four men at the door fell 
on the prince, disarmed him, and bound his hands. 

“ The police has now its lawful prey,” said the em¬ 
peror, “but I do not wish this young rogue's name ever 
to be mentioned, nor that he ever shall gain opportunity 
to speak for himself. You, police superintendent,” con¬ 
tinued his majesty, turning to that gentleman, “do with 
that prisoner as I have secretly instructed you to-day!” 

The officer bowed silently. 

“If I could but take revenge on you, masked serpent,” 




321 


THE WIDOW'S SON, 

shrieked Egmont, “ I would not care if the hangman 
tore me to pieces.” 

“ The time for revenge is past, Egmont of Weiden,” 
said the Black Mask, “ the war which the two boys at the 
swamp declared against each other is at an end.” 

He took off his mask, and looked steadily at the pin¬ 
ioned man. 

The latter thought for a moment, then broke into an 
awful howl. He had recognized his enemy. 

“Joseph Bonafit,” shrieked he; “why did I not think 
of you before?” 

“Let there be an end of this,” cried his majesty, 
sternly; “ one of you go in advance and put all the lights 
out, so that none who may perhaps have been eavesdrop¬ 
ping see this prooession and draw conclusions therefrom. 
Cover the face of the prisoner—here, take the court- 
physician's mask, he has need of it no longer; the strug¬ 
gle is at an end. 

The police agents, for such were the four unknown, led 
the prisoner away, and the emperor comforted the duke, 
who was crying like a child. 

“ Gentlemen,” at last said the emperor, “ let us swear 
that the events of this night shall never be divulged by 
any of us.” 

All, even the duke, raised their hands, and solemnly 
took this oath. 

* * * * * * 

In the city, as well as in the whole duchy, the news 
soon spread that the duke had had a quarrel with his 
nephew; that the latter had solemnly relinquished all pre¬ 
tensions to the throne, and gone back to America, whence 
his Indian mentor had preceded him weeks before, as 
Europe and its manners did not suit him. There was 
ridicule at the expense of the police, who had been so 
foolish as to search so long for the Indian. 

On the day after the eventful night above described, an 
imprudent servant gossiped about the strange orders that, 
had been issued in the palace. But when this chatty 


322 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


person was sent to prison for several years, every one sud¬ 
denly forgot all about what transpired in the castle that 
memorable evening. For a long time the police still 
sought for Egmont of Weiden, the Trumpcard; of course, 
without success. The emperor's commands had been 
strictly executed, and no one ever heard anything of 
Egmont again. 

But it was worthy of remark that, since the departure of 
the prince, the celebrated physician known as the “ Black 
Mask " went about with his face uncovered, and charmed 
all beholders by its beauty and gracefulness. All who 
had till now refrained from coming to him, being with¬ 
held by dread of his mysterious mask, streamed to him in 
crowds, and, much sensation as the “ masked " physician 
had created, that of the “■ unmasked ' exceeded it by far. 


CHAPTER XLIY. 

THE REALIZATION" OF A DREAM. 

The poor old duke never recovered from the effects of 
the blow which the events"we have just related proved to 
him. The emperor, two days before his departure, was 
obliged to come to the duke's sick-bed to take leave of him. 
The court-physician was in the room, and Benrimo, lean¬ 
ing on his crutches, stood sorrowfully at the window. 

When his imperial majesty had spoken a few words of 
cordial sympathy to the duke, he asked the permission of 
his highness to let the noblemen and officers, who were 
waiting in the adjoining rooms, enter. 

The duke, too weak to speak, nodded acquiescence. 
The doors were immediately thrown open, and the apart¬ 
ment was soon filled with officers and noblemen in glitter¬ 
ing, gold-embroidered uniforms. 

Gentlemen," began his majesty, “ it is the happy 
prerogative of an emperor to reward magnanimity, noble- 
heartedness, and, what we prize above all, erudition, 
wherever we find them. We, the emperor, now making 
use of this privilege, intend to add a pearl of price to the 
mobility of this province, and all Germany; one which 





THE WIDOW'S SON. • 823 

can only tend to heighten its luster; and we hope that all 
of you will esteem and love this new member. 

“ Kneel, Dr. Bonafit!” commanded his majesty, draw¬ 
ing his sword. 

Full of happy confusion, and pressing both hands on 
his heart, the physician dropped on one knee. 

The emperor lightly laid his sword on the kneeling 
man’s shoulder, and said: 

“ Bise, Joseph Bonafit! By right of this blow, we create 
thee Count of Immenfeld!” 

Intoxicated with joy, Joseph rose slowly from his 
knees, and the emperor, according to the custom in 
vogue and an old usage, clasped him for a moment in 
his arms, while he whispered: 

“The title of count for the pretty duchy you have 
preserved for us, and we shall further remember you in 
kindness.” 

With bitter-sweet faces the noblemen and officers in 
the room followed his majesty’s example, and embraced 
the new nobleman. Had they known what we know— 
that Joseph was of lineal descent of the Patriarch Abra¬ 
ham—their sentiment would have turned honey into vin¬ 
egar. 

The emperor departed, but had proceeded no further 
than the next town when a courier overtook him, with 
the sorrowful tidings that his highness Duke Francis 
XII. was dead. 

Two days after his majesty had left the city, he re¬ 
turned to it and was quietly welcomed by the people, as 
well as the nobility, soldateska and burgher militia, who 
. were now his subjects. 

The duke’s body was already laid out in state, and, as 
his highness had wished, Benriino, attired in all his mili¬ 
tary equipments, held watch beside the bier. It was a 
prerogative he could not surrender. At the foot of the 
bier, attired in all the splendor peculiar to a nobleman of 
his time, stood Count Joseph Bonafit of Immenfeld, the 
court-physician of the late duke. 




c m THE WIDO W 'S SON. 

The emperor advanced with uncovered head, devoutly 
folded his hands, and pronounced a short prayer for the 
dead duke* 

The scene was very solemn and impressive. The high> 
spacious room was completely draped in black, the pict¬ 
ures of the old dukes seeming to look sorrowfully down 
on the last descendant of their lineage, and the many 
lights which, despite their brilliancy, were inadequate to 
light up the gloomy surroundings. 

The bier, richly decorated with black cloth and silver; 
the double row of burning wax-lights around it; old 
Benrimo sorrowfully leaning on his crutches, and the 
erect, handsome figure of the court-physician on one 
side; on the other, the great sovereign of the German 
realm in full uniform, and with head lowered before the 
dead body of his vassal—truly, such scenes engrave them¬ 
selves upon memory! 

* % * * % 

The funeral of the duke had taken place, and his re¬ 
mains were resting in the family vault of the Wimmer- 
steins. 

Benrimo still lingered in the deserted palace, and was 
treated by the servants with all the respect they had 
shown him heretofore in the lifetime of the late duke. 

The emperor had also domiciled himself in the palace, 
and expressed his intention of staying there until he had 
selected a suitable governor for the duchy, which now 
constituted one of his provinces. 

The emperor knew all about Benrimo, who had been 
introduced to him by the late duke. His majesty was a 
stranger in the city, and not admiring the pedantic coun¬ 
cilors of the duke, he one day sent for old Benrimo, and 
remained closeted with him a considerable time. 

These conferences were continued several days in suc¬ 
cession, and the result was that Joseph, Count of Bonafit, 
of Immenfeld, was summoned to his majesty. When, 
after a long interview with the emperor, Joseph left him, 




THE WIDOW'S SON. 825 

lie tottered like one intoxicated, but his face was radiant 
with pride and happiness. 

Entering his carriage, he called to the coachman: 

“ As quickly as possible, to the villa of the Countess of 
Weiden.” 

“ Perhaps Father Anselmo is there,” he whispered to 
himself. 

When the carriage stopped before the villa, Joseph 
leaned eagerly forth, and beheld the meager form of 
Father Anselmo at one of the windows. The servant 
barely had time to announce the Count of Bonafit before 
the latter rushed into the room and threw himself into 
Father Anselmo’s arms. 

“ My teacher, 0, my dear teacher, my dear Rabbi 
Mundolfo!” cried Joseph, enraptured, “I have reached 
the goal of my ambition!” 

“ Be composed, my dear count,” said Anselmo, respect¬ 
fully, and modestly releasing himself from Joseph’s arms; 
(i joy must be taken, like medicine, in small doses.” 

“Father Anselmo,” cried Joseph, “if you will not call 
me by my name—that name by which you learned to 
know me—I would rather that I had remained plain Joseph 
Bonafit.” 

“Well, well, my son, honor to whom honor is due; I 
did not want to hurt you; on the contrary, I love to call 
my pupil by his title of honor. But you wish to tell me 
some news.” 

“ Well, listen, and convince me that I am not dream¬ 
ing, my honored, my beloved teacher; his majesty has 
just appointed me governor of the Duchy of Wimmerstein, 
which is now one of his provinces,” cried Joseph, breath¬ 
lessly, and again embraced his teacher. 

“Praised be God forever and ever!” said Father An¬ 
selmo, solemnly. 

He dispatched a messenger for his daughter and her 
child, in order to inform them of the truly surprising and 
glad tidings. 

When Joseph, late in the evening, left the villa, where 


•M THE WIDOW'S SON. 

he had passed some delicious hours, and returned to the 
city, he found all the streets and squares Splendidly illu¬ 
minated. On his questioning in whose honor this was, 
he received the answer that it was for the new governor 
whom the emperor had that day appointed, and who was 
no other than “ the Count of Immenfeld , the former court- 
physician of his highness , the friend of all the poor” 

“Did I still wear my mask every one would know me,” 
muttered Joseph; “now hut few recognize me; This is 
the case with all men; if they were to lay aside the mask 
they wear all their lives, their best friends would not recog¬ 
nize them; for every one wears a mask, and only feels 
comfortable behind it.” 

It was a beautiful autumn day. The Jews in the 
Ghetto had that morning gone for the first time to 
JSeli’hoth in the synagogue. 

It was the day on which the new governor was to take 
the oath of allegiance, and just eleven years since the poor 
Widow Bonafit awakened her Joseph before dawn of day 
to send him to Seli’hoth, with his father’s big Ma’hsor 
under his arm; as we have related in the first chapter. 

The troops had been called in from all parts of the 
province, in order to make as extensive and splendid a 
parade as possible in the city. 

The four weeks’ mourning for the duke was over, and 
the streets were gayly decorated with flowers, bunting, 
and flags, as at the time when the emperor entered the 
city for the first time. The people crowded the streets 
since early morning, and shouted and cheered regiment 
after regiment as it passed, amid the blairof trumpets and 
the beat of drums, to the place of festivity. 

A squadron of cavalry kept guard before the palace gate 
and repelled the importunate crowd. 

When the appointed time arrived his majesty the 
emperor stepped forth from the palace; about a pace be¬ 
hind him the newly appointed governor of the province, 
in richly embroidered uniform, his sword studded with 




82 7 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 

jewels at his side, a glittering diamond star on his breast, 
and his plumed hat in his hand. 

The people enthusiastically shouted “hurrah!” quite 
carried away with admiration at the manly beauty of the 
governor. 

He looked like a Greek god; his magnificent attire 
enhanced his beauty a hundred-fold. 

Behind these two appeared the flower of the nobility, 
the officers and councilors of the court, all arrayed in the 
utmost splendor. Among these was Benrimo, who was 
carried in a chair by eight richly dressed bearers. 

The whole company mounted the elegantly caparisoned 
horses in waiting for them, the squadron of cavalry fell 
into the rear, and the procession set into motion amidst 
the cheering of the people and booming of the cannons, 
and galloped swiftly to the. field before the city, where 
the troops were to pass in review before them. 

When his majesty and the governor arrived at the head 
of the immense column which stretched back to an invis¬ 
ible distance, the drums commenced to beat a salute, 
which was answered along the whole line; the flags were 
waved, the bands discoursed music, all which, however, 
was drowned by the cheers of the soldiers. 

“Hurrah! the Emperor! hurrah! the Count of Immen- 
feld!” 

Hid Count Joseph of Immenfeld think of the morning, 
eleven years ago, when the alarm of the sexton's call for 
prayer had roused him from his sweet dream, and he had 
wakened with the cry: Hurrah for the General!” and, 
still heavy with sleep, had fallen into his mother's arms? 
Did he think of it? 

Probably he did; for, as he caught sight of Pinkus 
amid the spectators, and of the great book under his arm, 
on which the word “ Seli'hoth” glittered brightly in the 
sunlight, a smile passed across his face, and a look of sat¬ 
isfaction rested upon it. 

The Governor of Wimmerstein also observed a splen¬ 
didly appointed carriage, in which sat a lady and a fair- 




828 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


haired boy. An old Franciscan friar sat beside the lady. 

The governor raised his hat, and his majesty, following 
Joseph's eyes, also sainted the inmates of the carriage, 
who, evidently gratified by this notice, bowed deeply in 
return. 

“Who are these people, count?” asked his majesty. 

“The Countess of Weiden, with her son and father,” 
answered the governor. 

“ A Franciscan friar her father?” smiled his majesty. 

“It is a remarkable story, and I will tell it to your maj¬ 
esty, if you desire it.” 

“ Three very interesting persons,” returned the em¬ 
peror, again looking around, and regarding the inmates 
of the carriage; “tell them to come to court to-morrow, 
my dear count.” . j 

When the review was over the noble company returned 
to the palace, which was now to be the dwelling of the 
poor boy from the Ghetto in Immenfeld. A large ban¬ 
quet was prepared here, in which all, Benrimo included, 
participated. 

His majesty remained a few days in the city, during 
which he took occasion to have the Countess of Weiden, 
her son, and Father Anselmo introduced and presented 
to him. When he finally departed, he left his best wishes 
for the welfare of the new governor and the province of 
Wimmerstein. 

How, at last, Joseph found time to speak alone to his 
old friend Benrimo. He went to his room, and, warmly 
embracing him, said: 

“ My first teacher! I owe to you not only my first step 
in the path of glory, whose goal I have now reached, but 
the summit of my happiness; for I know it was your pa¬ 
ternal care that proposed to the emperor the new gov¬ 
ernor of the duchy.” 

“ That is not much,” answered Benrimo, with a modes¬ 
ty peculiar to him; “ I only did it so as not to let my pro¬ 
phecy come to grief—for on that memorable day, before 
Rosh Hashanah, I said to myself: 



THE WIDOW’S SON. 329 

“ ‘ If that hoy is destined ever to enter upon the path of 
glory, he has cleared the first obstacle out of his wau to¬ 
day.’” 


CHAPTER XLY. 

THE FOURTH VISITOR TO IMMEHFELH. 

The changes that had taken place in the duchy of 
Wimmerstein did not greatly interest the Immenfeld Jews. 
After the lapse of six months, and when all the country 
was full of the news, the good people did not even know 
yet the name of the new governor. 

What benefit could arise to the Jews from a new govern¬ 
ment? They had been, and were still, the Pariahs of 
society, the scapegoats of those in high places and do¬ 
minions, and objects whose blood might with impunity 
be shed by whomsoever had the power and will to do so. 

So the Immenfeld Jews were all the more surprised 
when they heard the news that the castle on the hill was 
to be repaired, or rather, thoroughly cleaned and bright¬ 
ened up, as his excellency the Governor of Wimmerstein 
was making the tour of his province, and thought of 
staying a while at this castle, whose owner was still un¬ 
known to the villagers. 

It was very near the Easter holidays, and the Immenfeld 
Jews were so occupied by their house-cleaning and mat- 
zoth-baking, that they could not pay proper attention to 
the occurrences at the castle, and were quite surprised 
one day by the advent of a troop of cuirassiers, the body¬ 
guard of the governor. 

These were quartered with the peasants in the village, 
while the Jews had to pay a contribution, as no soldier 
would harbor with a Jew, so great was their prejudice. 

This arrival was a sure sign that his excellency was not 
far behind, and in fact the very next day a glittering 
cavalcade came galloping down the road beside the grave¬ 
yard. It was rather remarkable that they halted here a 
moment and all uncovered, while one of the troop, ap- 



THE WIDOW'S SON. 


880 

parently the governor, pointed with his hand to the 
cemetery. 

Then the cavalcade passed through the village, where the 
peasants had formed a lane ; the Christian schoolmaster, 
with his pupils, sang a choral. Here the band of cuiras¬ 
siers fell in with the new-comers, and soon the whole train 
could be plainly seen from the Ghetto, as it wound up 
the hill and vanished behind the gray walls of the castle. 

The inhabitants of the Ghetto returned to their wonted 
vocation, and the nobility were soon forgotten. 

But how was the president—who, by the way, had 
quite recovered from his illness—astonished, when toward 
evening a Cavalry officer came galloping into the Ghetto, 
and asking for Ben Han, notified that eminent member 
Of the congregation, that the governor proposed to visit 
the Ghetto on the following day, and that he had better 
Set on foot all necessary preparations. 

The good president was quite thunderstruck. He im¬ 
mediately sent for Isaac Kline, and commissioned him to 
summon all the members of the congregation. In grand 
council it was then and there resolved, in order not to 
spoil the mighty maffis temper, to form a lane, as the 
peasants had done that morning, and for this purpose to 
don their best Sabbath clothes. 

The singing of a choral, however, was a difficulty not 
to be surmounted; the Jewish youths were not at all 
trained and practiced in singing. 

Suddenly the cattle-dealer, whom we remember from 
the time of the Benrimo riot, started a proposition to the 
effect that the reader, bass, and soprano, who, on solemn 
days chant the prayers at the service, should supply the 
place of a choir, and receive the great visitors with a chant 
of a suitable psalm, selected for the occasion, and that 
they receive the officers carrying the sacred scrolls, in fes¬ 
tive attire, with their silver-and-gold paraphernalia. 

This proposition was accepted, amidst general acclama¬ 
tions, and the meeting adjourned. 

It may be confidently maintained that very few of the 





THE WIDOW'S SON. 


m 

Immenfeld Jews passed a quiet night, for, as already 
observed, nothing extraordinary ever happened in those 
days that did not excite the fears of the Jews for their 
safety. 

“What would impel a representative of the emperor 
to visit the Ghetto if he had not some malice in his 
mind ?” 

Thus every Jew said to himself, and every one was at a 
loss for a reply. 

The eventful morning dawned, and quite early the 
members of the congregation, all dressed in their best, 
assembled in the lane, and were formed into two rows by 
the president. The children were all festively dressed, 
washed, and combed, and set on the door-steps, awaiting 
for the great things to come, while the women and maid¬ 
ens peeped forth from behind their little round window- 
panes. Even the lead-framed window of the Widow 
Bonafik’s house was not without an occupant; for there 
sat the good little woman, in order to catch a sight of the 
.glorious warriors and great nobility. 

Suddenly a signal resounded from the castle-hill. The 
startled Jews fell into line; the three choristers prepared 
themselves; the sacred scrolls, as above described, carried 
by the officers, so as to be in immediate readiness; and 
the president, who bore as baton a blow-pipe (an article 
formerly used by housewives to kindle a fire, and consist¬ 
ing of a hollow wooden tube), shouldered it, military 
fashion. 

A merry blast of trumpets sounded through the clear 
morning air, the trampling of horses came nearer, and 
the troop of cuirassiers, a band of music at their head, 
galloped into the Ghetto, scattering the frightened people 
to the right and left, considerably deranging the care-, 
fully formed double lines. 

The troop passed through the whole length of the 
Ghetto, and stationed themselves at the foot of the hill 
on which the graveyard was situated. After them came 
an empty carriage drawn by six horses^ a gayly dressed 


332 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


courier, running and leaping, ahead of it. This carriage 
stopped exactly opposite the Widow Bonafit’s house. 

This was followed by a splendid cavalcade, horses and' 
riders so glittering and sparkling with gold, silver and 
scarlet trappings, that tne Jews were forced to close their 
dazzled eyes, thus hardly gaining a clear sight of the; 
most splendidly dressed rider of all, who fairly shone with, 
gold and diamonds. 

The minstrel trio sang Hebrew psalm 45, and carried 
the sacred scrolls with their silver paraphernalia on it,, 
and the president, with great presence of mind, saluted,, 
military fashion, with his blow-pipe. 

His excellency smiled and touched his plumed hat, an 
action that charmed all the Jews, for a nobleman who 
laughs and salutes a Jew can have no evil intent in mind 
or malice in his heart. 

This cavalcade also halted opposite the Widow Bonafit’s 
house, and at a sign from the commander a rider dis¬ 
mounted and vanished into the interior of the house, to 
the no little astonishment of the assembled congregation. 

But their astonishment very nearly turned into petri¬ 
faction when the rider reappeared, and speaking a few 
words to his excellency, the latter sprang lightly from his 
horse, and bowing his tall, stately form, passed through 
the little door into the Widow Bonafit’s house. 

The cavalcade now turned; the troop of cuirassiers fell 
in in the rear, and amidst the lively, stirring music of the 
band the whole procession retraced their way to the cas¬ 
tle. However, the carriage with the six horses, a servant 
in attendance, and the groom, who held his excellency’s 
horse, remained behind. 

The Jews in the street formed into little groups and 
essayed to regain their speech, of which his excellency’s 
visit to the widow’s house had robbed them. None dared 
to leave the street for fear of missing something. 

Let us now see what happened in the widow’s house. 

An anxious trembling fell upon the old and more than 
modest woman when she saw a splendidly dressed rider 


THE WIDOW'S SOW. 


333 


dismount and enter the house. She wished to arise, but 
had lost the power to do so. As the rider entered the 
room he said: 

“ Gracious lady, his excellency, the Count of Immen- 
feld. Governor of Wimmerstein, begs leave to wait upon 
you, in order to communicate some tidings of your son.” 

These words restored the widow's presence of mind, 
and in her joy to hear something of the son whose com¬ 
ing she still patiently and hopefully awaited, she forgot 
the importance of the visitor she was about to receive. 

When, then, his excellency came in to Mrs. Bonafit, 
pressed her hand and gently forced her back to the seat 
from which she had painfully arisen, the widow did not feel 
nearly so timid as might have been expected. She was 
only somewhat at a lose by what title to address her dis¬ 
tinguished visitor. 

But the latter was as condescending, nay familiar, as if 
he were one of her young acquaintances. 

The governor took a stool and sat down opposite to the 
widow. 

“ Madame,” began his excellency, after waiting a while 
in vain for the widow to speak, “your Joseph sends you 
liis love; he lives , is a good , honest young man , and will 
soon come to you .” 

“Gracious, beautiful count,” stammered the widow, 
“ I thank you. I am rejoiced to think that such a grand 
gentleman knows my Joseph, but I should like, oh! how 
much! to see him. I believe that he is good and honest , 
else so distinguished a gentleman as you are would not 
know him; but, if it is not asking too much of your lord- 
ship, would you be kind enough to tell my Joseph that 
if he wants to come, he had better do so soon, for I cannot 
wait much longer. I have waited a long, long time, and 
have not got tired nor let scorn and mockery upset my 
faith; but God Almighty may take me to himself ere I 
have seen my Joseph. I am old and feeble; the grief 
for my boy has made me hoary before my time; I cannot 


034 THE WIDOW'S SON. 

consent to tarry much longer, not a great while longer, no, 

nor 

His excellency passed his handkerchief over his eyes. 

For a while both remained silent; then the governor 
began: 

“ Madame Bonafit, you are a good woman, and will not 
be deceived in your hoping and waiting, your trust and 
good faith. Your son is among my retinue, he occupies 
a high position, and will come to see you, it may be this 
very day.” 

“ God be praised forever and ever,” cried the widow, 
bursting into tears. 

Soon she asked: 

“But if my Joseph is so near why does he let his poor 
old mother wait?” 

“ He fears that the joy of this sudden reunion may be 
injurious to you,” said his excellency, seizing the widow’s 
hand. 

“No, no; by no means, my handsome sir; I have im¬ 
agined this moment to myself for years and years, have 
always thought how he would fall on his mother’s 
neck and kiss her. Yes, indeed, your lordship, and 
it would not even surprise me if you, noble sir, were now 
to say: ‘Look at me, mother, I am thy Joseph.’” 

Great Heaven! What was that? What had the grand* 
gentleman done? He had thrown himself on his knees, 
and twining both arms around the trembling woman’s 
neck, he cried: 

“ Look at me, mother, mother dear, I am thy Joseph!” 

The reader will forgive me for not describing the storm 
of joy, the delight of recognition, the inexpressible bliss 
of reunion; no pen, were it ever so mighty; no paint¬ 
er’s brush, were it dipped into Aurora’s rosy glory, could 
produce such a scene. Every attempt would be a desecra¬ 
tion of the mother-heart, an insult to the grand feelings 
God has implanted in the breast of man. 

When mother and son had somewhat recovered 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


3B5 


from their rapture and grown more composed, Joseph 
said: 

“Now, mother, you shall leave this little house. Do 
you see that splendid carriage out there? In it you shall 
accompany me to my palace in the city. You shall re¬ 
cline on silk and velvet, eat from dishes of gold, servants 
will be at your call, your slightest wish shall be religious¬ 
ly fulfilled. It is all I can do for you; I would pluck the 
stars from heaven for you, mother dear, for you deserve 
it; hut man’s power is limited. However, your foot shall 
not strike against a pebble in your path; I will make you 
the happiest mother , as well as the ivealthiest in all Israel V 9 

The mother fondled her son’s hand and stroked his 
long dark curls, whilst she said: 

“ My Joseph, I am the happiest and richest mother in 
Israel; for since we are in Galuth (exile), no such bliss has 
ever come upon a mother, poor or rich, high or lowly; 
but, my Joseph, I pray you make my happiness still 
greater—let me enjoy it quietly and blessedly—leave me 
here. Do not tear me from the Ghetto, from the little 
house in which I was born and bred, in which I loved you 
and kept you in the fear of God, in which your father 
and I, with God’s help, laid the foundation of your future 
grandeur. Leave me in the little house from which they 
carried your father to his last home; leave me where 
l can see, from early morning till late at night, the stone 
which marks his resting-place. I pray you, my son, do 
not tear me from my wonted surroundings, from the Sab¬ 
bath-lamp which gleams brighter than any other. I am 
here like an old crippled tree, which all its life has con¬ 
trived to feebly flourish in arid, sandy ground; were it 
suddenly in its old days to he transplanted to a fertile 
soil, it would certainly die. Oh, I pray you, my beloved 
Joseph, my only son, leave me here. You know I will 
follow you whithersoever it he, if you wish it; but do not 
ask it, my son, do not ask it!” 

An expression of sadness lay on the son’s countenance, 
but he perceived that it would bo a dangerous enterprise, 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


m 

and not at all conducive to her happiness, to tear his be¬ 
loved mother from the surroundings and habits that had 
been hers all her life. 

He also plainly foresaw that the congregation in Immen- 
feld would now regard his mother with peculiar veneration. 
Then he considered that everything in the palace was not 
and could not be as strictly religious as his pious mother 
was wont to enjoy it, and this alone would "imbitter 
instead of sweeten the few years she had still to live. 
Joseph therefore yielded to his mother’s wishes, and soon 
perceived that he had acted wisely: for her uneasiness 
vanished and her joy was now complete. 

Despite their intense curiosity, the Immenfeld Jews had 
found the time of waiting too long, and when the gov¬ 
ernor at last emerged from the widow’s little house, there 
were but few stragglers in the street. It was quite dusk 
when the empty carriage left the Jews’ lane, and the 
groom started on his way to the castle, leading his mas¬ 
ter’s horse, as—to the man’s boundless astonishment—his 
excellency had concluded to pass the night in the widow’s 
little house. 


CHAPTER XLYI. 

CONCLUSION. 

What did the Immenfeld Jews say when they heard 
the wonderful story of the lost son? At first, they did* 
not want to believe it, and who can blame their doubts? 

The governor of Wimmerstein was obliged to issue a 
formal proclamation that Joseph Bonafit, Count of Im¬ 
menfeld, and Governor of Wimmerstein, was the same 
Joseph Bonafit who had mysteriously disappeared the 
night before his Bar-Mitzvah (confirmation). On Sab¬ 
bath Hagadol (Sabbath before Passover), the Saturday 
on which Joseph was to have become confirmed, his ex¬ 
cellency came to the Synagogue, was called to the Thora, 
and read not only the benediction, but the whole weekly 
section, as it becomes a regular confirmant to do. He 
donated to the congregation a large sum of money for the 



THE WIDOW'S SON. 337 

building of a new synagogue and the paving of the Ghetto, 
as also for the erection of a good tavern, in which chance 
visitors to Immenfeld might pass the Sabbath, thus avert¬ 
ing all possible vexation that might accrue from them to 
the members of the congregation. 

During the Passover holidays, the great man, clad but 
in a simple black suit, stayed with his mother, and slept 
in the little room her loving hand had kept in order for 
eleven years. 

And thus the governor passed the holidays for the ten 
years his mother still lived, an object of the greatest ven¬ 
eration to the Jews of Immenfeld. Every spring and 
autumn his excellency came to Immenfeld alone, leaving 
all his splendor behind, conducted his mother to the Syn¬ 
agogue at the solemn festivals, ate at her table, and slept 
in his little room. 

All that the governor could do for the Jews was to re¬ 
lease them from the obligation of paying certain taxes for 
their protection, and this was no inconsiderable relief to 
them. All the other tributes flowed into the emperor's 
treasury, and were out of the governor’s power to abolish. 

His excellency's first visit to Immenfeld was very 
nearly of evil consequences to him, and would have 
proved fatal to all his grandeur, had not the emperor 
been a liberal-minded man, and owed him a debt of grat¬ 
itude. 

His majesty received an anonymous expostulatory letter 
to the purport that he had committed something un¬ 
heard of, to-wit, not only made a count of a Jew, but ap¬ 
pointed him governor of one of the most flourishing prov¬ 
inces in the realm. 

This was retorted to by a circular addressed to the no¬ 
bility of the former duchy. The contents were as fol¬ 
lows: 

“To The Faithful of Wimmersteih, —It is true 
we have been very careless, and confess it, although we 
are lord and sovereign of this country. We neglected 


338 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


to ask our loyal governor, Joseph Bonafit, Count of 
Immenfeld, to what religion he belonged. Etiquette 
forbade him stating anything that his emperor had not 
asked of him, and so we fell into the error with which 
our dear Wimmersteiner reproach us. As the harm is 
done, we most earnestly beg our dear subjects for for¬ 
giveness, and entreat them to make for once a trial of a 
scion of the house of Israel; but at the same time we ex¬ 
hort the nobility of Wimmerstein, under pain of our im¬ 
perial displeasure, not to trouble themselves about, nor 
condemn the actions of their emperor in the future. 
Etc., etc., etc.” 

This circular had due effect, and no more murmuring 
was heard against the Jewish governor. 

About two years after Joseph had been appointed 
governor of Wimmerstein, he received a letter in a well- 
known hand. It was dated France; and hastily opening 
it, he read: 

“My Dear Son, —When two years ago we, that is, 
my daughter Ella, her son, and I, took leave of you, we 
expressed a desire to go to France, and there resume the 
religion of our ancestors. Greatly pleased at our resolve, 
you promised to insure the safety of my grandson's es¬ 
tates, despite our change of religion, provided we kept 
this secret. You have faithfully kept your word, for a 
courier has just brought us the deeds, drawn up by his 
majesty, which confirm my grandchild, Benoni of Wei- 
den, in all his rights and property. I, together with my 
daughter Ella, the Countess of Weiden, and her son, 
have embraced the old Mosaic faith, and we are happier 
than ever heretofore. I shall take advantage of the first 
opportunity to return to you the money you realized for 
the diamonds deposited and concealed in the skeleton in¬ 
trusted to your custody, at your departure from the con¬ 
vent, and sent to me. I have no need of it; for, as you 
well know, my daughter is very rich, and at court money 
may be always useful. Moreover, being a Jew, it is un- 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


339 


certain how long you may maintain your position as 
governor, although the best can be hoped for. 

“ My daughter has resumed her Jewish name, and my 
grandchild, whose name, Hugo, was known to but few, 
has retained the name given him in the Ghetto, Benoni, 
and it is by this I have mentioned him in my petition to 
the emperor. 

“Now I have one thing more to ask of you, my 
dear son: I once bought the Castle Weiden, in Immen- 
feld, firmly resolved to place Jews where their persecu¬ 
tors had so long lorded it, and at that time, not forseeing 
your splendid career, I destined it for you. 

“ I will send you the above-mentioned money, also the 
purchase deeds of the castle, which are all made out in your 
name. I expect you to pay me the debt of gratitude you 
imagine you owe me by accepting this gift, and hope 
that, every time you go to Immenfeld, you will visit the 
castle, and if it he but to stay there an hour, in order to 
fulfill what was once a favorite thought of mine. 

“ Your devoted friend, 

“ Isaac Mtodolfo.” 

“ So dear Father Anselmo has at last found complete 
happiness, as misfortune was too tired to pursue him any 
further,” said his excellency to himself, as he held the 
letter over the flame of the candle and carefully dispersed 
the ashes, for it was not advisable to risk its being read 
by any one; “good Father Anselmo, who, by sending me 
back this money, makes me one of the wealthiest men in 
the city. I think I will let some of it wander to the 
Ghetto, although the good Countess of Weiden, before 
her departure, restored to the Jews all the money Witzleb 
wrested from them, besides presenting them with a con¬ 
siderable sum. Of course I must also accept the Castle 
Weiden; this gives me almost as much pleasure as my 
high position, for the reason that once, at least, Israel has 
triumphed over its antagonists, and also because the 


340 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


castle was so long an object of dislike to my brothers in 
faith in Immenfeld. 

* * * * * * 

Now that we have taken leave of good Father Anselmo, 
nothing more important remains for us to do than to take 
a little journey to the Convent of St. Francis, and see 
how things look there. At the time Baron Witzleb was 
murdered, his effects were closely searched by the police, 
and a small paper, laid in minute folds, was found among 
them. This paper, on being opened, disclosed a written 
statement to the effect that Father Ignatius, prior of 
the Convent of St. Francis, voluntarily declared himself 
to be an accessory and accomplice of the baron. 

Of course preparations were immediately made to arrest 
the prior. Soldiers were sent to the convent, and a 
police officer penetrating into the prior’s cell, held before 
the holy man his written confession and declared him a 
prisoner. This was, however, unnecessary. The prior 
could not rise, he was struck by apoplexy. Hence it 
came, that none of the apathetic monks concerned them¬ 
selves about the new governor; and never suspected in 
the person of the Count of Immenfeld the novice who, 
according to their opinion, had been baptized in his 
death-hour, and whose surname they had never known. 

* * * * * * 

Time, no matter how long it gives credit, at last de¬ 
mands its due, and no one can hope to escape the scythe. 

Full five years after his young friend’s wonderful ele¬ 
vation did Benrimo still live, revered by his one-time 
pupil, and honored by a repeal of the ’Herem or anathema, 
into which the Jews of Immenfeld had put him, years 
ago. He was also most earnestly entreated by those 
same Jews who had once been so inimical to him to pay 
them a visit, but this he had never done. 

Benrimo was a great support to Joseph in his cares of 
government, for the old man had been the adviser of the 
deceased duke, and Joseph often sighed with regret when 
he thought this old friend must once become lost to him. 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


341 


Benrimo’s hour came. When he felt that his end was 
drawing nigh, he said to Joseph, among many other 
things: 

“My dear son, I have but one more wish, and this may, 
perhaps, seem curious to you: I should like to be buried 
in the graveyard of Immenfeld. I passed some very evil 
days there, and rejoice in the thought that I will be 
allowed to rest in peace upon yonder hill. Further, my 
dear Joseph/" continued the dying man, “I wish, 
although you are now the greatest and richest man in 
Israel, that you will become my heir. It is not much that 
I have to leave, but it may not be disagreeable to you to 
be reminded at times of the old Spaniard. On the white 
margins of my folios you will find many interesting and, 
it may be, instructive observations, that I have noted 
down from time to time.” 

Joseph kept beside the death-bed of his old teacher, 
the first who had shown him the way to fame and splen¬ 
dor, and wept like a child. But tears will not detain the 
fleeting spirit, and Benrimo gently fell asleep, to awake to 
a better life. 

Moses Benrimo’s burial resembled that of the patriarch 
Jacob. The old hero’s body was conducted to its last 
resting-place in a hearse drawn by six horses in sable 
trappings, and surrounded by guards of soldiers, while 
the Jews of each town accompanied the sad train to the 
next. The whole way the hearse was followed on foot by 
Joseph of Bonafit, Count of Immenfeld and Governor of 
Wimmerstein. 

When the sorrowful procession reached Immenfeld, the 
Jews, who had once treated the man who now returned to 
them so ill, solemnly took charge of the body and buried 
it in their graveyard, on the highest point and row of honor. 

The ten most eminent rabbis in the province said 
Kadish (mourner’s prayer) during a whole year for the 
duke’s old friend, who had no children to render him this 
service of love. For a whole year a lamp (Ner Tamid) 
burned in the ancestral halls of the dukes of Wimmer- 


342 


THE WIDOW'S SON. 


stein, to the memory of Benrimo, and for a whole year a 
guard of soldiers kept watch by the light, night and day. 

Thus had Duke Francis XII. ordered in his last will 
and testament, and faithfully was the order executed by 
Joseph of Bonafit, Count of Immenfeld, Governor of the 
one-time Duchy of Wimmerstein. 


[the end.] 
























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